ANOTHER YEAR GRINDS TO A HALT AND THE SILLINESS MARCHES ON

Nineteen ninety-one is staggering to its conclusion like a drunk leaving happy hour, loaded and uneasy. Any hope found in 1992's approach depends on who you are.

Mikhail Gorbachev's summation of the year would be more edgy than most.

Dear Diary: This has been a 12-month bummer.

The Dec. 31 journal entry of Clarence Thomas would likewise be grave.

Got a new job. The interview was hell.

For me, the year wasn't so bad. I got a year older, which isn't annoying taken against the alternative. More gray hair has sprung from my scalp, but not enough that formulas, Grecian or otherwise, are required. I remain thoroughly ordinary, a trait I probably can't shake, though I fancy on my best days this is just disregard for vanity.

In part, however, I recognize that my year was successful because I prey on those whose years were not so good.

In 1991, I marked my 10th year of writing a personal column. Don't feel bad that you're just learning of this; the anniversary was celebrated in a low-key fashion. There were no Time cover stories.

In the course of that decade, I've stuck pretty closely to a conviction that I wouldn't pick on anyone who meant well or who didn't deserve it.

What I've discovered, though, is that there are plenty of people who don't mean well and do deserve it. Hence, business is good.

Like the rest of this year's valedictories, my look back on 1991 centers on Desert Storm. Saddam Hussein was so uniformly evil that he made an easy target. If only allied bombers had it so easy, the Kurds would rest well these days.

People who make the laws, as always, provided a good source for copy. In March, Congress tainted a glorious celebration of the war's end by trying to divide up the victory along partisan lines. The public was not impressed. By September, America learned their legislators were bouncing checks at their in-house bank. They're nice guys, but you wouldn't want to finance them.

In Colorado, legislators mulled over a law that made it illegal to insult vegetables. On the East Coast, a movement started to designate the lightning bug as national insect. Democracy stalled not even for a moment.

As the year developed, I formulated a number of theories that seemed good at the time they were written. When people complained that President Bush nominated Thomas to the Supreme Court to fulfill a quota, I agreed: without Thomas or Thurgood Marshall (whom he succeeded), the high court would have no one with a mustache.

I also offered suggestions for resolving urban problems (break up the cities and send their refugees to Montana) and increasing the census count for Cape Girardeau (reproduce at a greater rate, like rabbits or people from Jefferson County). Simple.

We were saddened by a number of deaths in 1991. I mused over some less familiar ones: Bernard Castro, inventor of the sofa bed, passed away. He probably decided it was easier than moving one of his inventions up a tight staircase.

And the year held forth a usual amount of silliness. I documented the troubles of an Illinois university professor who wrote the book (literally) on nude beaches. I chronicled the legal claims of a man who insisted a casino gave him so many free drinks that he was unable to gamble effectively. (I'm sure they didn't mean to, Dufus.) I detailed the weird year of poor Judge Lupo, the woman with a face that launched a thousand motions.

This is the 87th column I written in 1991. Along the way, I've probably dangled a participle or two and probably even misplaced a modifier. I've tried against overwhelming odds not to take myself or too much else seriously. If I've provoked some thought or laughter as I went about my business of being a professional smart aleck, I'm pleased. If I haven't, then you're probably not hanging on for the 18th inch of this column.

Thanks for reading. I hope the coming year is good to all of us.