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"This is why we don't visit Starbucks," he grunts to himself as he clings to 2005. Twenty hours to go. Was this the way it was supposed to end? A clack-ball noisemaker sits silent on the desk. There are no champagne flutes, but hopefully someone checked the batteries in the light-up martini glasses. The big finish, the flourish at the end, is at least three grocery stores away. New Year's Eve. This is the speed trap of holidays. Christmas with the family is four lane highways, no traffic. This day is the pounding of pots, pans, and expectations. Don't let that get to you. Fireworks, balls dropping, all the symbols of a fresh start. Perfection, purity, potential, all those p's that never quite come to be. No worries. Smell that, my friend? It's that brand-new-year smell. Nothing like it. My boss won't be thrilled, but you look like an intelligent sort. What's it going to take to get you into a fully-loaded 2006?