It’s not the end of the world, just the beginning of the year.
I hate New Year’s Eve. It is clearly the most overrated holiday. Everyone expects to have a blast on NYE but, ask around, no one ever does. NYE always turns into a clusterfuck of mixed up plans, too many options, and everyone in the country clogging the roadways trying to get somewhere “special” for the countdown. 95% of us fail every year.
I have a theory about fun. You can’t force fun. One of the most fun days of my adult life happened completely on accident. On my 25th birthday my mom was in town visiting. I was still living in Santa Barbara and we decided to make a 2 hour stop at the beach because it was really nice out. Going to the beach with your mom…sounds kind of lame right? Well, I decided to call one of my friends, who called up some of his family and a few friends. Before I knew it we had a whole party of people there. Somebody brought booze and, before you knew it, I’m watching my mom fly 7 feet into the air after a wave tossed her off of kayak. It was awesome. We stayed at the beach for 9 hours and I didn’t even get sunburnt. It was an accidental good time. It was fucking magical.
NYE is the exact opposite. Everyone (and their mother) feels like they are required to have a good time on the last day of the calendar year. This is why you pay $40 to get into a bar that usually has no cover. This is why Affliction adorned douche bags and their over dressed bro hoes swarm Hollywood and pay $300 at a club that promises a champagne toast at midnight. This is why the Los Angeles freeways are at a complete standstill at 11:45. This is why your date is already puking by 11:30. This is why you feel like you’re a failure if you don’t get laid by 1:30AM on January 1st. This is why, most of the time, I wish I would’ve just stayed home.
My childhood memories of NYE are bleak at best. They generally consisted of my mom and dad going out to have a good time while we were babysat by whichever friend they could find that was too sick to go out that night. Said babysitters never had Nintendo, or old Wrestlemania events on VHS, so we were left to watch Dick Clark (the equivalent of Ryan Seacrest for the baby boomers) host a television show that led up to a ball dropping while our supervision hacked their lungs up. I will never understand the ball dropping thing. It was not cool to me then, it is not cool to me now. I actually feel horrible for tourists in New York that stand in the freezing cold in a sea of strangers and scream at a fucking ball dropping.
When I was finally old enough to feel like I should be going out for NYE I was generally stuck in the house anyway. In Alaska, December through February are the coldest months. But it’s not cold like most of you are used to. It’s cold that you can’t grasp if you’ve never been in it. It can hit -60˚ for 10 days straight during that time of year. It gets so cold that the moisture in the air freezes into tiny ice crystals and form ice fog that can lead to not being able to see 5 feet in front of you. I remember one year when I was around 13, we were in a deep freeze for so long that I didn’t leave the house (or shower) for 7 days straight during our Christmas break. I didn’t realize how disgusting that was until a buddy of mine came over with his folks and informed me of how bad I stunk. My hair was matted and oily and the old ratty OR scrub pants I had on smelled like an NFL offensive lineman’s jock strap after superstitiously not washing it during a four game winning streak. If I were smarter back then I would’ve just kept it going and been the first white kid in AK to embrace impostafarian dreadlocks.
When I finally got a drivers license and by some miracle I was able to convince my folks to let me drive in the -40˚ weather (HEAT WAVE!!!), I realized that there really wasn’t shit to do on NYE if you weren’t able to get into a bar. The best NYE of my high school years involved me hanging out at one of my snowboarding buddy’s house with about 6 other people. We drank gin that came in what looked like a mouthwash bottle, smoked weed out of dirty metal pipes, and the skanky girl that used to let me feel her up on the chair lift allowed me to advance to what I thought was 3rd base at the time: sucking on her nipple while she clumsily gave me a handjob. Happy New Year motherfucker.
When I was finally old enough to hit the bars, I realized that NYE was no better for adults. It’s just a bunch of people as lost as I am, hungrily searching for someone to exchange cold sores with at 12AM. New Years is like the Super Bowl for me: every year I partake and try to enjoy the festivities, but it’s generally so forgettable I can’t remember who won. Last year I was at a rap battle event filled with rap dudes. Not the best place to try and get laid. Thankfully some drunk latina girl who looked “good enough” walked by right at midnight. She was a “Rap Battle 8,” meaning she was a real life 6, but as she stumbled by half drunk and we met eyes, I looked at her in a Guinness laden haze and yelled over the music, “YEAH…WE’RE GONNA KISS NOW.” She obliged and I went in for a polite peck when she opened her mouth and shoved her tongue to where my tonsils used to be. I never did catch her name, but I probably could’ve gotten a tugger in the bathroom if I had tried.
My point to all this is that fun can’t be forced. This New Year’s Eve don’t try so goddamned hard. If something happens, that’s great. If you don’t have fun it’s not the end of the world, it’s just the beginning of the year.
Sidenote: Please remember, if you drink and drive, be sure to drive as fast as you can and get off the road quickly so you’re only a danger to others for the least possible amount of time. HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!!
