Yes, it's New Year's Eve. The day before the first date of the new year. And, unless you're a college football fan or love to stare at glued-on flowers, January 1 is usually a blur. Not because of drinking. Well, of course, maybe a little because you were chucking down some cocktails. But it's also that dreaded day where you are forced to think about your regular life. And, oh, yeah, that diet you need to begin.
But, first, there is December 31 and a time for frivolity.
Yeah, right.
Realistically, 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 New Year's Eve.
Regular readers will recall my past pieces on the parties that my parents threw in our basement for family and friends. At the age of six, I spent one New Year's Eve acting as bartender and sending some relatives into a high-ball-provoked coma. That tale is being rested this year. Maybe I'll share it again when the clock ticks down on December 31, 2013.
Oh, there was that New Year's Eve when I was a freshman in college. You think I was sowing the wildest of oats that year? Nah. I had the flu. And this is noteworthy since it was the very last time I ever had the flu to the current amazement of my internist. As a result of this miraculous streak, I never have endured a flu shot.
The very next year I was healthy, though. And a bunch of completely bored and over-served sophomores played hockey in a dormitory elevator bank, using somebody's crunches as hockey sticks.
There was the one where I was fresh out of college and trying to impress some girl with my ability to cook in that new wok I had just gotten for Christmas. Note to all: you really do have to chop up the ingredients or your meal can be a disaster.
There was the year where my fractured shoulder was in a sling and I could barely reach for the dice playing Trivial Pursuit at a neighbor's home. I won the game and the painkillers were delicious, thank you very much.
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. My first official act of the New Year was putting my John Hancock on a "do not resuscitate" order.
And, more recently, there was that wonderful restoration of the night. Out to dinner with good friends in Los Angeles and then hear Kristin Chenowith ring in the new year with some song at Disney Hall.
Yeppers, 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. I've written about it before but it's a story worth repeating.
1984.
Typically, I had not made definitive plans, when my good friend Glenn in New York 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 recreate 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?
I do know one thing for sure. In a potpourri of New Year's Eve memories, that one year chimes in brightest. And, as if I am reliving the wonderment of it all, I now maintain a New Year's Eve tradition. Every year, when it's 9PM on the West Coast, I will call Glenn on the East Coast. To wish him a Happy New Year.
And remember that my very favorite New Year's Eve was all his idea.
Dinner last night: Turkey burger at Pig N' Whistle.
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