My new year started the exact same way my past six did; I was intoxicated, somebody passed me a glass, glasses or bottle of cheap champagne and somebody in my general vicinity kissed my face. My job has kept me busier than your mother in a roomful of horny sailors waving one-dollar bills and cucumbers. I usually come home from work burned out. I just want to eat a plate of tacos, play a few games of NHL 2002, watch some smut and then go upstairs to bed and fall asleep without incident.