Tuesday. Christmas was Sunday.
So, as the sun sets on that memory, I raise a glass of leftover eggnog—which is mostly bourbon—to the Gonzo Christmas. To the year we finally realized that sanity had gone on vacation and we were left to run the asylum. It was loud, it was expensive, it was deeply, profoundly unhinged. But it was ours. And in the fear and the loathing, we were, for a fleeting moment, actually alive. gonzo xmas 2022
That is the gonzo truth of Christmas 2022. It was not a silent night. It was a cacophony of supply chain failures, viral respiratory infections (a “mild cold” that felled three cousins), and the ghost of inflation haunting every grocery receipt. It was a nation trying to anesthetize its collective trauma with cinnamon-scented candles. Tuesday
But here is where the gonzo lens focuses sharply. Underneath the chaos, under the tired jokes and the indigestion, there was a raw, bleeding tenderness . Because 2022 was the year we stopped pretending we were invincible. My father, who had never cried in front of me, got quiet watching my toddler niece open a stuffed rabbit. He was thinking about the last two years he lost, the visits he couldn't make, the birthdays he watched through a screen. The pandemic had stripped away the buffer of routine, and what was left was just... us. Fragile, broke, exhausted, and desperately holding on. To the year we finally realized that sanity