The numbers are cold in this cruel, cruel game of ours, fellow LDBCers. (And I mean “fellow” as in “we’re all in this together,” not as a gender thing. The terror of the holiday is a very inclusive community.)
Twenty-three days of mayhem, with just over two to go. Just shy of 1800 of you on the Facebook page. And 341 of you have filled out the official form to report the details of your downfalls, with a handful of others settling for commenting on the page because Google changed something behind the scenes, and the stinkin’ form doesn’t show up on all browsers, operating systems, and mobile devices. (Sorry about that; I’ll have it fixed for next year.)
Gillian Beebe pulled a Janet Leigh and bought it in the shower just because she wanted her lonely pooches to have music to listen to while she was away from them. David Goldfarb and Matt McGuire were done in by a Mulholland Drive-like harmonica-blowing busker on two different New York subway lines. Phil Smy was gunned down among the Shaka Shaka Chicken and Fillet-O-Ebis in a Sendai McDonald’s. (He thought himself invulnerable because he was in Japan, but The Boy needs no passport to do his dirty deeds.)
Yet the brave fallen would rather light a flame than curse our darkness. And in keeping with that spirit, they’ve taken it upon themselves to post poignant selfies (to be forever known as LDBC-elfies) to capture their shock and grief visually where words alone are not adequate. Christine Moers and Jamie Ocain. Adrienne Martin. Brian White. All brave souls whose tragic countenances are presented for that mix of tears and laughter unique to freaks such as us. Jennie Horn Godwin, who wasn’t able to snap herself, but managed to save herself from the cold-case files with an image of the perfectly charming pianist who unknowingly sent her to puh-rum-pum-pum-Purgatory.
They’ve created the trend. So how can any of us not pick up where they’ve left off? We’re nearly there, beloved colleagues, dear friends, complete strangers. From here on out, should you lose, feel free to submit an LDBC-elfie. And should you make it across that line come midnight of the 23rd (12 am of the 24th—however the hell you want to say it), snap your happy faces and submit those, too.
Smile. Caper. Gloat. Honor the fallen. Whatever. I just want to see faces, and so do your fellow LDBCers. (Well, the losers may not want to see the winners so much, but they’re just Bobby and Betsy Bitter-Pantses. As I will be, if I get clipped this year.)
And remember to look to my coming at first light on the fifth day. At dawn, look to the east.
No, that was Gandalf.
Cool your jets?
No, that was my fifth-grade playground monitor when me and my friend Tom Shuck refused to stay out of that dangerous tree, and she made us sit out the rest of recess on the ancient balance beam that no one used since just looking at it gave you a splinter. Because that was somehow safer. So we ran in circles—arms out like wings, making Blue Angels whooshy-engine noises—just to show her she couldn’t break us.
Anyway, as the noted philosopher Tyler Durden once said, it’s only after we’ve lost everything that we’re free to do anything. Which is great and all, but I prefer the imprisonment of winning this hellish thing and sending The Boy back to Rat-a-tat-tat-Ville with the tread of my boot embossed firmly on his ass.
But otherwise, here’s to your boots, LDBCers—those who we’ve lost and those who stand defiant still.
We’re almost there.