'Tis the time of year when everyone, seemingly, is compelled to ponder the Year(s) Past and speculate on What Is To Be. Hence the title of this post, as I feel most of these ruminations are precisely so bovine, and their ruminating results in exactly the same product.
What I am thinking about, however, is the oddity of New Year's Eve, which I believe should be re-styled as The Great Disappointment, or, A Tremendous Letdown. Somehow--and perhaps there are tens or even hundreds of people out there who have had the opposite experience--it never is what it is supposed to be. I've had better times at grad student parties, and that's saying something. What's odd is that I now believe I have reached the bottom rung of expectations for New Year's Eve, and yet every year I find myself casting about for something suitably celebratory. It always seems that everyone has something to do on New Year's Eve, and that therefore obligates one to also do something (anything!) so as to be able to at least tell people about it when they so inconsiderately ask. This creates bars and parties full of people who probably would rather be at home in ratty pajamas eating whatever is leftover from Christmas, but who nonetheless feel obliged to be festive. After all, they hired a sitter, put on heels, and they're going to have a good time, goddammit. It's NEW YEAR'S. Then everyone watches the ball drop, and the entire thing deflates like an Afghani warlord who has run out of Viagra.
For me, I think there's a superstition lurking here: that New Year's is a harbinger of the year to come, and that how one spends that one evening will somehow be recreated Groundhog-Day-like for the rest of the year. And who wants to take a chance, however slim (or however likely the actual possibility) that one will spend the entire year grazing leftovers in old pajamas?
2 comments:
It's me. Ok, so I never invited you to one of my parties in Union Square in San Francisco on New Year's. My fault. I guess after high school we fell completely out of touch -- that is, until I started picking up my paychecks at an office in the same building in which you worked. I knew you were busy, as every time you came out, you quickly heaved the heavy steel door shut and I could swear I heard monkeys wailing. Anyway, there was a time whhen New Year's meant something.. Or at least, it was fucking crazy great fun. And for me, that was between the years 1994-1997. Then there was 2000. I can't complain about spending the night at the top of the Rio in Vegas at a private party, watching the entire Strip launch a massive fireworks show into the night sky. It was an expensive dinner, to be sure, but worth every penny, even today. I drank, I danced, I cheered, I sneaked a few smokes... It was brilliant. (Sorry, I've been watching Top Gear for the last two hours, love.)
I want you to think of New Year's the way Bill Murray thought of Christmas is Scrooged. The miracle can happen to you. You just need to be with the right people in the right place at the right time. The miracle can happen to you. And when it happens, you're going to want it every day...
Never apologize for watching Top Gear, that show is itself brilliant.
Post a Comment