by David Rhoden
Amateur Night.
Well, lads, now that you're past Christmas, you're a-comin'
up on Monsieur Misbehavior's most least favorite holiday of the
year. Amateur Night.
It's not your fault, of course. It's just that my expectations
were so high from the start. My folks actually went out, so I
knew New Year's Eve (or "NYE", in the misbehavior trade) had to
be something big. I didn't see, when I developed all those high
expectations, that eventually a jolly holiday mien would also
be expected. And I'm not crazy about doing what's expected.
But it was fun for a while. Until I was about twelve. Speculating
on those top 100 songs was interesting. Back then the champagne
poppers said "FREAM PLOOF", which is still one of my favorite
words. Why do things have to change?! I never thought I'd miss
hearing "Free Bird" at midnight, but things do change. Frankly,
New Year's was better before there was booze. Because then there
were fireworks. My most beautiful New Year's Eve memory (you DO
want to hear this, don't you?) is of my sweet high school sweetheart,
in a fancy party dress, jumping into a cloud of smoke and fire
to rescue her pocket book from an explosion caused by a "Screaming
Chaser". I also have a pleasant recollection of the time I set
off something called a "Fire Ball Congregation" or some such--it
looked like an apple that leapt in the air, spitting out sparks
and spinning, coming down with a light 'thunk!' on someone's nice
car and leaving lovely coruscating smoky whorls that I hope were
not permanent.
Nowadays it's mostly one long cab hunt.
So NYE kind of sucks now unless you like crowds of drunks,
and nasty weather. Or if you like to watch balls drop. At
least we have the death game to comfort us. (The death game? It's
where you list the people most likely to die in the coming year,
and a kitty goes to the person whose pick kicks first. Reagan
is a good bet. You can set odds if you like, to add a little interest,
and so that someone who has faith that, say, Kenny
G will pass away, will be richly rewarded should that event
occur.) And of course, there's always the hope that Armageddon
will come a little bit ahead of schedule.
If you do insist on going out, at least try to participate
in mayhem. Like my friend (who has a name, but I'm not telling
it to you). We were out one year, making our way to a loft party
to which we had only a second-hand invitation from this pretentious
"artist" we didn't even like. The guy wasn't at the party though.
Which was nice for my friend because, since no one there knew
us, he was able to pretend to have a really cool job (he's quick
with the details) and meet plenty of dizzy babes. My friend is
a serious cat, however, and shabby conquests are not his style.
In fact, he gets an empty feeling when life turns cheap and tawdry.
(Is that OK to say on the Man's Life site--that maybe some New
Year's Eves you just don't want to score with some dumb girl who's
interested in you because she thinks you work at some kind of
dollar-oriented job? Is that OK? I think so.) And when
he gets an empty feeling, funny stuff happens. He's very sensitive.
And in his pain, he threw his coat over his shoulder and quietly
left. Then he sort of pushed his fist through the sheet rock wall
of these boneheads' loft before running away with a bottle of
champagne.
That's funny to me.
Of course, I didn't see any of it. I had already bailed
out in disgust. I went back to Brooklyn,
where I dodged a barrage of explosives (fortunately they weren't
aiming at me, they were aiming at the lady with the baby carriage)
and drank a beer and listened to Tony!
Toni! Tone! on my headphones. It was a New Year's Eve to remember.
They really use a lot of channel separation.
OK, OK. Maybe I'll cheer up this year. Or maybe next year. In
fact, that's my resolution -- to look on the bright side in 1999.
After all, at least we can count on a big plate of hog maws and
black-eyed peas.