Sure, it's the most overrated of holidays. If you don't have something to do that night, you feel as if you've been relegated to the local leper colony. And, I've had a range of experiences on December 31. I remember one while I was in college, when a bunch of completely bored and over-served sophomores played hockey in an elevator bank, using somebody's crunches as hockey sticks. There was one where my fractured shoulder was in a sling and I could barely reach for the dice playing Trivial Pursuit at a neighbor's. (You will read more about that one tomorrow.) There was the fateful Eve when I returned from a house party to hear that my mom had just lapsed into a coma at the hospital. The memories swing wildly like an out-of-control pendulum.
But, I certainly can remember hands down what the best New Year's Eve was. 1984. I had not made definitive plans, when a good friend called with a bright idea. He and his wife were going downtown to an oldies club called Shout. In the true spirit of marketing, the place played the song several times that night. My friends even had another girl going, so we could easily divide the drink bill equally four ways.
To be honest, I don't remember who they brought along, because I danced with so many people that night. The night was electric. One big hit from the 50s and 60s after another. At several points out on the dance hall, we toasted catcher Gary Carter, who the Mets had just obtained in a trade. At midnight, they dragged out "Shout" one more time. And we all did. I kissed a few of the other patrons around me. I had no clue who they were. I didn't give a shit. It was that free. And easy. And spontaneous.
We had so much fun that, by January 2, I was already making plans to duplicate it the following year. And we kept spreading the words amongst other friends as if we were sharing a secret handshake. By the time December, 1985 had rolled around, most of my address book had been invited. And I had a girlfriend, to boot. A non-stranger to kiss at the stroke of 12. This was going to be super-electric.
It was horrible. What had been spontaneous the year before was now over-planned to the hilt. And the cast of thousands of my friends didn't exactly mesh. It was a disaster. To make the gloom even more pronounced, we got word in the middle of the evening that Ricky Nelson had been killed in a plane crash.
To this day, I still don't know what happened from one year to another. Indeed, I'm not even sure the club stayed open much longer.
Who can figure?
Dinner last night: Reuben sandwich at DuPar's prior to seeing "I Am Legend."
No comments:
Post a Comment