I hate New Year's Eve. Even as a high schooler, one who was capable of seemingly infinite poor choices, each strung lazily onto the next, I hated the holiday. I have always avoided the night like the plague, or like a bottle of Blue Nun. Whichever comes first...though I suspect one is always the predecessor to the other.
If I were prone to conspiracy theories, I would claim an underground liaison between network television and local beer distributors, for even the paltry t.v. offerings on New Year's Eve seem to utter "GO! DRINK! LOTS!"
Yet, each New Year's Eve evening, I dig in my heels and put up with more Lawrence Welk and J-Lo than is healthy for one person's heart.
After watching a 10/11 interview with local lawyer Herb Friedman last night, in which he was offering free taxi rides to any and all revelers, I became more convinced than ever that this is an evil holiday. Name one other holiday in which lawyers offer their advice and services for free. Heck, name one other moment in all of history in which such an offering is made. "Dead man walking." It's all I could hear as I watched Herb's lips moving.
Despite my distaste for the night, I have had some enjoyable ones in my 49 years. Family friends, the Carters, used to offer a Greenwich-Mean-Time New Year's Eve party...one in which the changing of the years was celebrated at 9 p.m., local time. Of course, I would have attended any party at the Carter's house, such was their reputation for good food and fun. But that they'd even figured out a way to make New Year's Eve fun? And end it all by 9 p.m.? Genius, pure genius!
And the whole Holt clan had a memorable New Year's Eve at the Rippe's house, as one millennium melted into another. I think we even managed to stay up until midnight, if for no other reason than to make sure that the world was not coming to an end. By the time we'd gotten home from the Rippes, I snuck into the basement and drained the tub, certain that we would not need 38 gallons of life-saving water, come morning.
For a few years, downtown Lincoln hosted First Night, an alcohol-free event in which dozens of venues offered all kinds of free entertainment. THAT was a good idea, although I suppose it had to end, given that downtown Lincoln also is home to 3,456 bars, all of which were doing a fine, liquid business, as well.
Ironically, after one of our First Night outings, our group of friends suddenly developed a wicked thirst for something bubbly, driving far too fast to the Russ's on 17th and Washington--that year-round circus where no good ever occurs--snagging the last bottle of booze they'd sell that night.
One blurry hour later, we broke the glass cover off our stereo cabinet, after thrusting our hips too vigorously to "I Want to Live in American," which was blasting from the speakers. One of our friends spent the night between Mark and me, secure in our king-sized, though ever-spinning bed. It was my only New Year's Eve that would be followed by a big bowl of Tylenol for breakfast.
No night holds more potential for utter disaster and disappointment than New Year's Eve. I'm no party pooper, though. I would never get in the way of someone else's fun. In fact, if I can help it, I never get on a road on New Year's Eve, for fear of getting in the way of someone else's fun.
Speaking of fun, I must remember to get some new AA batteries today. My Scrabble Scramble is starting to blink out. And I'm going to need that puppy, come tomorrow night.
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