James Mulcahy

And now her sandwich bag was gone. The 20 or so others stood outside, waiting to waddle into Central Park, as Pamela looked around her seat. It was there three seconds ago, before she went to the bathroom, a little blue thing lined with this weird fabric that looked like aluminium foil, with a cheese sandwich in it. Ok, she had made two cheese sandwiches, because if she could “casually suggest” that Gene have a cheese sandwich, instead of the Tour Time Lunch which was $30 no matter how much you ate, then they could save not only $30, but $60, which they could use for something like, say, paying for their house.

Like, of course she would rather have the fancy lunch, or even one or two of those Cosmo drinks because she had never tried one and they looked fun on that Sex and the whatever show - or at least on the version edited for the broadcast network, since they didn’t have cable. Not like they would be able to ever afford cable, with Gene booking family trips to New York City out of nowhere.

“Surprise everyone, we’re going to Times Square!” he said as he barreled in from work one day, like he was some game-show host and not the manager of a pet-food shipping facility.

The kids freaked out of course, he was their hero, and she was the one who bought them the cheap George Brand sneakers, which apparently were wrong because the McMansion kids called them Georgie Porgies. How was she supposed to know that?

“Maybe you forgot it back at the hotel,” Eleanor said, as she stood in the aisle of the bus to help find it. But of course she wasn’t really helping at all - she was just standing there, leaning on the umbrella in that way that said you are the problem here.

“No, I definitely had it,” Pamela forced a smile. “It was right here a second ago.” Maybe you’ve never really auditioned for a broadway show, she wanted to say. “Well, honey,” Eleanor said, “It will turn up, I’m sure. And lunch is on the itinerary, you know.”

Someone had taken it. It wasn’t back at the hotel. It wasn’t under the seat. She wasn’t some crazy lady who imagined that she had made two American cheese sandwiches on the kind-of-gross counter in her hotel room ($280 a night!), when she in fact had. Someone had taken her sandwiches, and she was starving.

“Its fine. I’m not hungry anyway, so I’ll probably just skip lunch.” She got up and walked to the front of the bus, carefully eyeing the seat pockets for a sign of her bag. Eleanor followed and threw open her umbrella as she came down the stairs, before she was even out of the door.

“Ok group, it’s time to go! We’ll walk to Bethesda Fountain. If you lose your way, just look for the rainbow,” she said to chuckles all around. “What’s wrong hon?” Gene asked as they walked away from the bus. The kids ran ahead, playing some sort of game that involved throwing Belle’s shoes at terrified pigeons. Which meant Belle was barefoot in New York City, which was not ok even though there weren’t, like, hypodermic needles lying around even though everyone back in Hazelton made it seem like that. “Belle put your shoe’s back on!” she yelled.

“Aw, they’re just having fun,” Gene said. “Are you sure you had it?”

Of course. Of course he asked that question. It was never “oh, well, let me help you find your blue bag, which clearly exists.” Instead, it was always her fault, as if looking for her sandwich bag was creating the biggest, most embarrassing scene in the history of the universe. She’d be down on the filthy bus floor, and he’d be all “she always does this” to the others.

They’d all laugh, of course, and he’d fail to mention that last year she had to ask her father for that money when the car stopped working. And he certainly wouldn’t tell them that her Dad did give it to them, even though Mom was gone and he certainly wasn’t rich or anything and there was that leak in his roof.

“Gene, I know I had it,” she said. “I think Eleanor took it. She was being kind of strange on the bus.”

“Pam, Eleanor doesn’t really seem like the type that wants a cheese sandwich for lunch,” he said. “Besides, we can all eat together when we get to the other side of the park.”

“I know, but..” “Stop,” he cut her off. “Pam, we’re here with the kids having fun. Please don’t start about money. Can we all just focus on having fun?”

God, she was such a kid when she had met him. It was perfectly fine at first, and they were happy, or at least happy-ish, and then came Joey, and then after a few more years it was Belle (surprise!) and then Joey was 12 and Belle was 9 and now Joey was standing on a bench digging through a garbage can in the middle of New York City making some sort of weird wheezing noise that was probably more for attention and less a result of his chronic asthma. At least she hoped so, inhalers were expensive, even with Gene’s stupid insurance.

“Joey, get out of the garbage honey, can you breathe ok?,” she called. He turned, looked at her defiantly, and ensued digging. What could even be that interesting in the garbage? Was it a thing, for kids to go digging in a garbage can for fun? Whatever - he was breathing ok - which meant that they weren’t another pump away from another $40 co-pay for an inhaler. Thank god.

“Gene, can you get your son out of the garbage,” she said to her husband, who had wandered out of earshot.

Gene just thought he was so great, and at first she believed it, but these days it only took a few clicks to see that he wasn’t Mr. Bigtime. She was the one who logged on to figure out which bills they would pay that month and which they’d have to let slide. She was the one who read about what exactly it meant to be underwater, and she was the one who sat there by herself when he worked his night shifts, trying to figure out how the hell people lived like this without burning down their houses.

So, she’d have her sandwiches, thank you very much, and she didn’t understand why it had to be such a thing that she didn’t want to pay $30 for a lunch that she didn’t even want anyway.

“It was probably that fat guy,” Gene had returned to her side, a hot pretzel in hand. What was that, like $6? “He was being kind of weird if you ask me.”

“He had those hot dogs earlier,” she said. She had considered him, but he seemed friendly. It was his first time in the city. Hers too. “I don’t think it was him.”

The rainbow umbrella beckoned them further into the park. “It’s gotta be Eleanor,” she said, almost to herself. “Don’t you think she gets like a cut of the money from lunch?” “Hon, stop being so silly,” he said. “She didn’t take your sandwiches. Let’s just drop it. I’m gonna go check on the kids. Look how nice it is here.”

And it was. It was very nice. They were walking down a cobblestoned pathway underneath these giant trees that curved up above them into a kind of archway. People sat on benches, and ate ice cream, and roller skated by - like actual roller skates, like she and Gene used to wear when they would go on those first dates at the roller rink, because in Hazelton it was either the rink or the bowling alley.

But here, there was more than that. People were out during the day. Like, regular people, just walking around and reading and enjoying the sun. What did they all do for a living? Did they have to duck out of their three-day-a-week office job when the bank called? It wasn’t even an office, it was an old trailer on a construction site that got so dusty in the summer.

Here, the air was clear, and there were birds, and, ah, christ, there was Eleanor with a clipboard.

“Hey honey, I’m getting a final headcount for lunch. I’m sorry you lost your sandwiches, do you want me to put your name down.”

What was with this woman?! Just when Pamela was looking around and actually, you know, like breathing, it’s another chance to ask for money.

“I know you took them,” Pamela snapped.

“Excuse me?” Eleanor said.

“You were standing by my chair when I got out of the bathroom. You took the sandwiches.”

“Dear, I’m afraid you’re mistaken.....”

“And three days from now, you’ll have some other family on the bus, and the same thing will happen, and everyone will think that the mother is crazy, not because she thinks her sandwiches have been stolen - which they have been - but because they think it was stupid that she packed them in the first place.”

“Now Pamela, I think you need….” “What, what do I need? To be told what to do by some old-lady with a clown umbrella who stole my sandwiches? Some actress? I know why you took them - you can’t afford this stupid lunch either.”

Eleanor stood, stunned. Pamela knew she was right. She just knew it.

Gene walked up, mouth full of pretzel. He sensed the tension, and stopped chewing. “What’s going on here ladies?”

Eleanor spoke first. “Sir, I think your wife may need some rest. I don’t appreciate being personally attacked when I have a tour to lead.” The umbrella remained high in the air as she walked away.

“Personal attacks!? Pamela, what’s happening?,” Gene said, crumbs falling out of his mouth.  

Of course he was going to take her side. “Gene, I know she did it. Can we just go? Let’s go do something else.”

“Hon, we already paid for the tour. Can we just stop this?”

“I can’t. I can’t stop it when this woman took my blue bag for no reason.”

Gene swallowed what was left of the pretzel and exhaled. “Look, I didn’t want it to be this big thing. I took the sandwiches, OK? I threw them away outside the bus. I just wanted us all to focus on having fun.”

God dammit. “Gene…” She wished Eleanor had taken them. Or even the fat guy. She wished she had never packed them at all.

“Come on hon, we’re here in New York. You gotta stop it with the money stuff, OK?”

She stood there, in the middle of Central Park. People on roller skates created colorful blurs behind her husband. She didn’t know what to say.

When he lowered the plow in his own driveway, it was a series of clanks as the blade grazed  rocks that were unearthed in a storm three winters ago. He needed to fix those.

He could see faint red tail lights ahead of him. He had followed their glow since he’d entered the highway. They looked big, definitely not a car. At least if things went to shit he could hit the lever and push his way through. Well, probably. It was getting pretty bad.

Just then the lights disappeared. He heard something that was like a muffled avalanche, like when the snow is so thick that his plow emits a big “wuff,” and he has to back up and hit the gas a little harder.

“Oh fuck,” he said aloud as he drove toward the darkness.

***

The windshield was the quickest way into the bus, which had flipped on its side. He kicked his way through the safety glass; it peeled away like a crinkly food wrapper. He couldn't see inside, but he knew it was bad. Well, he could see the driver. Or what was left of him. And he could hear music. The radio was still playing, just like the black tire was still spinning, in denial about what just happened as it looked for a groove to follow, one left by a car that had driven home to safety.

He maneuvered over the dashboard, trying not to look. This was not a normal bus. Where were all the seats? Oh shit, blood on his leg, did he cut himself? God dammit he couldn't afford that. What was this music?

“Mister - mister, help!”

She was talking to him. Think. Calm down. It wasn’t his blood. He shouldn’t have gone out. He wondered if he would still have time to make it to the development.

“What happened?” he said, panting from the run down the slope.

“The bus went off a cliff,” she cried as she held her friend. He had raced, by foot, down the small embankment. In normal weather he would have driven down, no problem. Not a cliff.

There were two of them. Small women, not dressed for the weather, definitely not from the neighborhood. The hood, more like. The one that was talking to him seemed ok, a little bruised. The other had a rod sticking square through her chest; it was part of a table. Her eyes were wide, frantic, as she took labored, shallow breaths. The cold was coming in, he could see the white puffs of each exhale. Broken glass shimmered around her, like small particles of ice.

He had taken a first aid class, but years ago. Shit, he couldn’t remember. “Don’t move her,” he said. “Is everyone else ok? We need to get help.”

The uninjured one spoke. “Wayne’s dead. He’s dead.” Tears started to stream down the cheeks of her injured friend as snowflakes made white dots on her dark black skin. How did they get to have a bus like this, even nicer than the development people could afford? “He’s the driver?”

“No - Wayne. Wayne Anthony.” It sounded familiar. Spencer could see her hand shaking as she comforted her wounded friend. “Kendra needs a hospital now. We’re gonna get you an ambulance, baby.”

“Where is he?,” Spencer asked.

“He’s in the bedroom,” she motioned to a door that had flopped open against the broken window on the ground.

“You sure he’s dead?” He didn’t know what else to say.

“Guy, we need a phone. You need to call the cops!”

“You don’t have phones?” “We got no service. Where the fuck are we even?”

“Did Wayne have a phone?” he asked. He could run back up to his truck for the CB, but the hurt one’s breathing was getting worse. He’d never seen a black person turn pale like that.

“Yeah, but we got no service!” “Let me check, maybe his is working.” Spencer got on his knees and slid through the narrow slit. A mattress partially hid the body of the man. His eyes were open, his lips formed a surprised “o”. No one expects to have their neck twisted around like that. Spencer could see that his teeth were lined with gold. Who does that?

“Holy shit, that’s Wayne Anthony!” he said out loud. Yeah, he recognized him now. That was his music on the speakers. The song was called Make it Rain. He wasn’t a huge rap fan, but everyone knew that song.

“Sir, his phone ain’t gonna work,” a voice called from the other room, breaking with urgency.

Maybe the phone was in the guy’s pocket? He started to lift the mattress, bracing to see guts. Instead, it was a blue duffel bag that caught his eye. Its contents spilled out. Money. A lot. Way more than plow money. Stacks of hundreds, banded together, like those bank robber movies.

He had no idea how much it could be. He just knew it was a fuckin’ lot. More than the twenties he’d snatch from a jar when the folks asked him to “lock the garage behind him” after he shoveled their sidewalks. They never noticed. And they were normal people, they didn’t have buses like this. He bet the dead guy didn’t even know how many piles he had. His songs were on the radio, he probably had people to count it for him. Make it rain, isn’t that about just throwing money away?

“What are you doin’ over there?” The mobile one had worked half of her body through the door. “I’m tellin’ you his phone won’t work.” He grabbed a blanket from the rubble. She didn’t need to know that he saw the bag. “Pressure, you need to apply pressure, use this,” he threw the blanket her way. “He’s dead.” She didn’t look. “Kendra’s not. We gotta get someone over here.”

“I have a radio in my car. Let me go.”

***

The snow wasn’t falling, it was spewing - hitting him in the face, blowing parallel to the ground.

He kept stumbling, using his hands to paw up the slope. He had left his windshield wipers on. As he got closer, their call grew louder. Woosh woosh.  

Wayne fucking Anthony. The song he knew best was about the rapper’s love for a stewardess on his private jet. But here he was, dead on a bus.

That Kendra one wasn’t going to make it - they would take too long to get here. At least 20 minutes. He was friends with Eli and Rob, the volunteer EMTs. They had to drive to the station before they jumped in the ambulance. And they didn’t even have plows, just a blue light on their personal cars. Sometimes people wouldn’t even pull over for them. Assholes.

The money was just sitting there. Maybe they would give him some for helping, for missing his morning at Fair Acres. Who carries around a bag of cash like that? He wasn’t racist, he was friends with Manny, who did all the work at Ronnie’s joint while Ronnie was busy ripping people off. But he also wasn’t an idiot. A bag of cash meant they were up to something no good. Wayne sang about snorting it off the stewardess’ chest. Flyin’ high. It was the frickin’ name of the song. Everyone knew what that meant.

His car was still running. He jumped in, throwing his jacket on and rubbing his hands together. He grabbed the CB. Lois, would be stranded at the police station. She had graduated two years above him.

“Mayday, mayday,” he barked into the microphone. He had used it to chat with her about traffic, to get tips about when the county plows were delayed. Never for something like this. “Spencer, is that you? What the hell are you talking about mayday?”

“Lois, it’s bad - I’m on 519. There’s been a bus accident.” “Shit - Spencer. How many down?”

“You gotta send someone quick Lois.”

“I’m getting them now. Dammit - the roads. What mile marker are you?”

“I”m outside the DeSapio’s farm.”

He heard her calling out to Eli, telling him to mobilize. Help was on the way. “Ok, Spencer, stay put. How many survivors?”

…..

“Just keep pressing,” he told her. Kendra had passed out by the time he got back.

“It’s too late,” she cried. Snot ran down her nose. “Motherfucker. I told him we should have stopped.”

Spencer's eyes were on the little sliding door. “They’re coming, she’s gonna make it.”

“Kendra, wake up,” she wailed as she slapped her friend’s face. He needed an excuse to get in there. It would be easy. One, two piles, she would never miss it. No one would even know. He could get the windshield fixed, and the driveway. He wouldn’t have to go out on days like this. The work he could live with, but he hated the asking. They knew he was there. But they still made him ask, made him do that fake humble thing every single time, “Hey, do you think you want your driveway cleared?” He felt like he was asking to wipe their asses.

“I dropped my phone,” he said. “Keep pressing, they’ll be here any minute.” He slid through the partition before she could protest.

“What do you mean you dropped your phone?” Her voice was angry. He didn’t care. They wouldn’t miss a couple piles. “Keep pressing,” he called as he lifted the mattress again. The rapper’s teeth still sparkled. But the bag was gone. What the fuck. She moved it - she totally moved it when he went to the truck. He searched the room, where did she stick it? That piece of trash - she left her dying friend to hide the bag from him.

“You shouldn’t move stuff. It’s evidence,” he said as he came out of the bedroom. It wasn’t in there. “What do you mean, evidence? The bus fell off a cliff.”

“It’s not a cliff,” his eyes darted around the room. If she’s hiding it, they were definitely up to some shady shit.

“Did you find your phone?” she said, tensing up. She knew that he knew that she had moved the bag. He could tell. He wasn’t an idiot. “We’re on tour. How long is it gonna take the ambulance to get here.”

“They’re coming,” he said. What if he just took it? What would she do? Tell the cops that he had stolen her drug money? Cry to Rob and Eli that a shady sack of hundreds was missing. He’d plowed them out for free, they weren’t going to believe some black bitch. Who was she anyway? Some prostitute, probably.

“They need to get here,” she said. She was covered in her friend’s blood.

“Where is it?” He took a step toward her.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” she said, standing up and facing him.

“You know what I’m talking about.” He saw it. The table that impaled Kendra was next to a little kitchen. And it was right there, in the microwave. The shit had put it in the microwave. She followed his eyes.

“I’m calling the cops,” she said.

“Your phone doesn’t work,” Spencer said. “They’re on their way, they’re gonna be here any minute,” she tried to sound threatening.

One of the windows had broken in half, and the glass was stuck in the snow, right behind her. It looked razor sharp. It would be that easy. “The roads are bad,” he said. “It could take forever.” They made eye contact. Her gaze was full of suspicion; he tried to project calm. Both of them silently asked the other, “is this really happening?”

Was it? He knew this town. A bunch rappers go off the highway in some fancy bus, the whispers would be about how dumb they were, about how they brought it on themselves for driving in this weather. Everyone had said not to go out. He also knew that he’d be out again on nights like this for fucking ever. He’d be sitting in the cul de sac, with his heat turned off to save gas, waiting to drop the plow and scrape up $70, which wasn’t enough to buy shit. When they said not to go out, they weren’t talking to people like him.

“I was only going to take a few piles,” he said. Her nostrils flared, condensation pouring out of her nose as more snow blew into the bus. It was really happening.

******

He’d still plow them out. One last time. What would they do next storm when he didn’t show up?

He met Eli and Rob at the truck. It had been another 10 minutes, they had taken forever. “It ain’t pretty down there,” he said. “You boys can take your time cause there’s nothing you can do.”

They thanked him for waiting. The cops were on their way - there would be questions, but they knew where to find him if they needed him. Even if they had seen the blue bag on his passenger seat, they wouldn’t have thought to ask about it. The only question they did ask was a simple one: “who’d drive a bus on a night like this?”

The bar at ABC Kitchen invalidated countless calories burned at the neighboring Soul Cycle studio with pizzas and Prosecco, and I immediately loved the high-end Latin at newbie ABC Cocina (though that hot spot’s lack-of-elbow room is less than adorable). I can never have too many gin cocktails at Whitehall, especially in the afternoon, and the sun-drenched summer evenings that started at Le Bain always ended in debauchery and magic. And speaking of magic, if we haven’t gone to Marie’s Crisis together to catch some show tunes on a slow night, when do you want to come check it out, because I’m always looking for an excuse to stand in the corner, drink too many $7 bottles of Stella and catch a mind-blowing solo?

My favorite neighborhood spot Taboon kept me fed with hummus and red wine on snowy nights, the shuffleboard tables at Fat Cat entertained me and my friends during bar hops, and Mission Chinese was where I took friends and family when I was in an “I HAVE TO SHOW YOU THIS AMAZING THING” mood.

Whether it was cocktails around the potbelly stove, pizza at a garden party or just lunch and diner in the dining room, Roberta’s was the restaurant that was there for me the most this year - so perfect for any number of groups and moods. My friends still act surprised when I get over my borough-averseness and take the L Train out there and to them I say: have you been to Robertas? If not, please let’s go.

There’s the terrible bar food at Gossip in Hell’s Kitchen that is amazing when you’re hungover, and the Mexican at 9th Avenue shack Burrito Box, which I’ve been addicted to after a friend introduced me over 10 years ago when we went to Fordham, never disappoints. Pure Thai Shophouse probably has me flagged as one of their most loyal customers on Seamless - I would stop by more often but it seems that the secret is out because the crowds have come. Oysters at the John Dory were consumed on numerous occasions, and some of those were followed by dinner at The Breslin (yeah, Bloomfield gets a lot of love from me, but she deserves it).

I could go on (drinks at Saxon and Parole, dinner at Public, spinach and sausage pizza at Theater District dinosaur Thalia), but the pretentious side of me does want to do that top 10 list. See it below, with minimal comment, but if you’re looking for me in 2014, you’ll probably want to scope out those standbys first.

1. Uchiko: Perfection in an Austin, Texas strip mall.

2. All Good Things: Discovered this subterranean, TriBeca restaurant before the critics did. In fact, me and my companion were the only guests all night when we visited. They have New York City’s best new tasting menu and still feels like an undiscovered secret despite the mountains of praise that they’ve received after my lonely dinner.

3. FT-33: I’m officially starting the campaign to get chef Matt McCallister to move to New York City, because even though his subtle modernism lights up the Design District in Dallas, this place would easily make my list of standbys for next year if it were in the Big Apple.

4. Animal: To all of you who say that loving this nose-to-tail favorite in LA is so fucking cliche, I say be quiet and take another bite. Chefs all over the country are exhausting the meat-fetish trend, but in this health-obsessed city they do familiar dishes in ways the feel light and fresh.

5. Estela: I have had steak tartare 1,000 times and the presentation here managed to do something that 999 others hadn’t - surprise me. Same goes with the other small plates on the menu. I look forward to becoming a regular.

6. Louie Mueller BBQ: After driving an hour to Taylor, Texas and waiting in line for 30 minutes, my friend and I were handed a burnt end to munch on while we ordered. That single morsel was the year’s best bite.

7. Fat Rice: Digging into the namesake dish at this Chicago Macanese did epic things for my conception of the Windy City’s dining scene. So did the duck heart hash at Au Cheval, but this joint’s low-key but bustling energy gives it the win.

8. Joule: This high-end Korean in Seattle, a town rife with fried oysters and wood-fired everything, offered an innovative alternative that had me at two words: grilled kimchi.

9. Plant’s Seafood: On a crustacean-fueled trip to Maine, the best lobster roll was found by accident at this tiny shack after pulling off the highway in a small town called Bath.

10. Brownwyn: Germanic food isn’t my favorite, but on an ice-cold Boston night, a flavor-packed Kielbasa and the best blood sausage I’ve ever had left warm feelings all over.

2. A slightly tilted head which obscures any unbecoming chin flesh and/or hangover eye bags. A raised camera angle helps with this as well, and allows one to pay homage to the godawful Myspace photos that started this all (thankfully my emo hair ended with the demise of that networking site).

3. Pursed lips. I don’t know why I do this, it just happens.

Clearly I’m not the only person who has given some thought to self portraiture in the digital age. Selfie was the word of the year in the Oxford Dictionary, so whether its a smile that bears that perfect row of pearly whites or an angle that showcases just the right amount of boob, people all across the electronic ether have perfected their ideal poses. 

But this hasn’t been the only thing taking over the feeds during the past 12 months. 2013 seemed to be the year of life choices, at least among a good percentage of the people that I follow. Engagement rings lit up the walls, brides were held aloft on chairs, people joked about #anotherwedding and @replied their love to one another and tagged themselves as they made jumps on the timeline from just-Friendsters to 140 character commitments to the everyday, feet-on-the-beach joys of late 20s and early 30s as showcased on their restricted-access Insta accounts. No one has grown up quite yet in this world of Amaro-hued adulthood. But they’re getting close.

Soon enough, those alien-like, three-dimensional in-utero projections will have migrated from Fetusbook to Snap-whatever and the miniature, black-and-white hands will wave at the rest of us and say “oh heeyyyyyy….just chillin’ here and getting ready to carry on my parents’ gene pool while you are busy selecting the digital filter that will make you look slightly younger. Have fun with that.”

As I look back on the year, which seems like it went by in the time that it takes to crop and upload that perfect picture, it’s my selfies that stop the feed. And while Oxford might be the authority on these things, I think the word isn’t quite right. Sure, these photos were all taken from the perspective of my awkwardly extended right arm, there’s a common element other than my selfie face: another person.

My friends. Colleagues. Crushes. Co-conspirators. Confidants. The mischief makers and miscreants that inspired the camera to be turned around in the first place, there for all to see. Because who wants to look at my mug on its own? Selfie seems selfish, and these photos are anything but. When it’s me and them, it’s a flash of bits and brilliance, a beacon that can’t pause the stream of likes and comments and hashtags as they upload into oblivion, but can still creates a marker, for a hot second, of something great. Because even though a perfect selfie seems like an accident, these people are all by my side for a reason.

So sometimes, when I reach out and get close to whoever’s in the picture with me, a helpful stranger will come up and say “do you want me to take a picture for you?” I shake my head, smile: “No, I only like selfies…” And I hope this stays the case for 2014 and beyond. As others fill their feeds with big moments and grand choices and all the rest of it, I got a new phone, and plan to furrow my brow, and tilt my head, and gratefully snap away as these gorgeous people join me in the frame. Because judging by 2013, it's a damn good way to spend a year: