Happy New Year in advance, friends! If you’re like me, you’ve selected your most ornate ceremonial scimitars and had your footmen polish your boots to a high shine. I will be ringing in the new year tonight in the booming metropolis of Griffin, GA with a guitar slung around my neck. Yes that’s right, I have come out of retirement and taken up my axe once more!

You may remember that I completely voluntarily retired from the guitar playing arts nearly three years hence when I was asked to go fornicate myself by the band with whom I was, at the time, contracted. I needed the time off, and I enjoyed it, but now I am back and ready to ply my retarded sense of melody once more.

The difference this time is that I won’t be drunk out of my mind. I’ll have to come up with some new excuse for stinking up the joint.

Whatever your plans are for the evening, drive safe and stay out of trouble, friends. Happy new year!

My heart rate watch strap has broken again. Last time it broke I was able to repair it with a paperclip, but this time it has broken catastrophically, which is to say that I’ve lost a piece. Yes, lost a piece, and worse: a piece whose shape cannot be reasonably approximated with a paperclip.

I dashed through the Internet in a one-horse open laptop. My destination: Polar USA’s web site. My hopes: ordering a replacement strap. Sadly, there I met Failure. Polar wanted me to fax them an order form, but I have the misfortune of living in the great city of Atlanta in the year 2010 and fax machines are scarce on the ground here.

I did, however, learn that Polar makes a line of heart rate equipment for horses.

God, how I wish I had a horse. I would keep him on the heart rate monitor at all times. If I ever felt down, or lonely, I would look at my watch and see his heart rate digitally represented there and think, well, at least I still have Mister Gallops.

Did I mention that my imaginary horse’s name is Mister Gallops? I digress.

Not having the resources to travel back in time — or the motivation to travel to the nearest Kinko’s — I called up Polar, and spoke to David. He said that he not only had just the strap, but that he’d send me one free of charge. It will be here in a few days. In the meantime I have conducted a Repair on the remaining parts of my watch with an elastic hair band and a plastic button thingy.

It seems that things are looking up for me and Mister Gallops.

Right off the bat, let me say that I’m someone who has called himself a nerd before. Thanks to many long years of experiment and self training, however, I have managed to transform myself from a shy, awkward social pariah into a gregarious, outgoing social pariah. So it goes. I don’t really want to make a big honkin’ deal out of it, but apparently Patton Oswalt does.

If you don’t know who Patton Oswalt is, he’s a hilarious comedian. I’m a fan. When I was a child pariah, I spent many hours staring at the television during the dark days of the 80s comedy boom. That was when pretty much anyone with a funky sweater got a chance to tell jokes. Thankfully, all of those comics were shot and their funky sweaters burned in 1991.

Much as I like Oswalt’s comedy, I take issue with some of his points in a Wired article of his that I read yesterday. It deals with the Internet’s affect on nerd culture. He has this to say:

The problem with the Internet, however, is that it lets anyone become otaku about anything instantly. In the ’80s, you couldn’t get up to speed on an entire genre in a weekend.

As an aside, I didn’t know what otaku meant, but apparently it is a Japanese word that means “someone who is obsessive about something”.

Oswalt makes a great point. The Internet has made it easier to find out about obscure stuff, and that means that basically anyone can nerd out about anything quickly and easily. This is hardly a tragedy. In fact, I one might conclude that there’s never been a greater time to be a creative person. Yes! A creative person such as, say, a writer or a comedian.

That aside, what’s with the fitness hate, Patton?

Fast-forward to now: Boba Fett’s helmet emblazoned on sleeveless T-shirts worn by gym douches hefting dumbbells.

Just because someone lifts weights they’re not into obscure stuff? That guy probably writes Patton Oswalt furry fan fiction in his spare time.

I remember the betrayed and exposed feeling when my little sister started liking Guns ‘n’ Roses as much as I did — No, damn it, they are my band! — but isn’t it really kind of nice that everyone, no matter how obscure their tastes are, can find a community of people to relate to them?

If anything, I think the Internet has shown us first that everyone is a nerd, and second that it’s okay to be one. Or at least, that’s what I tell myself.

Like a squirrel running ill-advisedly on a power line strung between two poles, I am trotting furtively through this week with intentions to make changes in my blogging life. In 2011 I am going to attempt to blog smarter, not harder. Any harder blogging would result in a blogjam.

Please excuse the mess as I descend into the underpinnings of the Internet. That’s what it takes to change the look of a webular site.

Now that I have a couple of nieces to lavish gifts upon, Christmas has regained some measure of fun that was absent in the years between my own childhood and now. Yes, I say “lavish” even though one of them is only five months old and did not get a thing from me. I want to wait until she’s old enough to remember how great I am before I turn on the charm. I think it’s only fair.

That aside, I do want to make sure, as a proper uncle, that I have my story straight where the holidays are concerned. I want to be a source of wisdom and guidance to my newest family members, and let’s face it, the provenance of some holidays is pretty murky.

Everyone knows that Jesus was born when an evergreen tree flew out of a levitating angel’s robes, but where did rabbits hide the eggs in His tomb on Easter? Great mysteries, these, to be sure, and rest assured that I am researching them vigorously. In the meantime, though, I want to start with something a little easier.

That’s why I’m beginning my remedial holiday education with Boxing Day.

I’ve searched high and low, or at least from the first Google result until the third or fourth, and I am happy to report that I have all the facts collected.

Boxing Day was established in the United Kingdom by the 1871 Bank Holiday Act. A group of bankers approached Parliament and suggested that they, the bankers, should have a day or four off now and again. Parliament agreed that even bankers couldn’t be bastards every day of the year, and so it was signed into law that St. Stephen’s day, as well as three other days throughout the year, would be banking holidays.

One junior banker then spoke up. “But what about when St. Stephen’s day falls on a Sunday?”

“Shit,” mused the rest of the bankers, “he’s right.” They turned as one on the junior banker, politely killed him, and then invented Boxing Day, which would magically move to the following Monday should Christmas be so uncharitable as to fall on a weekend.

Celebrating Boxing Day is easy. All you have to do is take a day off of charging any fees or collecting debts just as the bankers do, even though the they have computers to handle all that for them anyway and computers have no souls and never rest. Modern bankers spend their time having meetings with one another, concluding each gathering with a tender hug and some light nuzzling, although these advanced financial methods are not recommended for the novice.

Be careful, friends, and happy Boxing Day!