"Tonight, we're gonna party like it's 1989," begins the song and I shudder at the prospect, not because I don't know how -- I probably went to more parties in 1989 than at any other point in my life -- but because fifteen years have passed and I'm losing the will to party. This will be the fourth night in a row that I've contemplated drinking that one wheat beer in the fridge and decided that I'm not up to the task. Now if I could only permanently transform this absence of a desire for disruption into long-term domestic tranquility, I'd be set. And I don't mean getting along with the family -- things are better on that front than they have been in a long while. It's just that I'm not feeling tranquil. Tired and restless is the mode of the day. I can't even space out to music. I know the rapid weather changes bear much of the blame, but that doesn't make the sound of those spinning gears in my head any easier to tolerate. Maybe reading some more Soseki will help. Of course, that course of action comes awfully close to not partying like it's not yet 1989, as I run my eyes along the dustless Scandinavian Designs bookshelves in 1890 Arch Street, right across from Tolman Hall. Perhaps memories of the absence of domestic tranquility in the more conventional sense can inspire a higher order tranquility in me. I do recall having to become uncharacteristically zen in order to survive in that tension-filled environment. I focused on the moment: the ding of the rice cooker; the rows of Price Club paper towels in the closet; the reliable sounds made by different spots in the aged oak flooring; folding and unfolding the futon; grabbing the Black Mountain bottle out of the fridge for a nighttime swig; triple-checking to make sure I hadn't put anything on the wrong shelf of the pantry; and, most of all, feeling that the whole enterprise was hanging by fibers with the tensile strength of toilet paper.