New Years Eves

In my teens, most New Year’s Eves were spent watching the pre-taped ball drop in Time Square with Dick Clark’s New Year’s Rockin’ Eve (B.S. – Before Seacrest.). I drank Dr. Pepper and dreamed of days when I would “have a life.” I envisioned parties like the one in Holiday Inn and An American In Paris. These parties have yet to materialize.

This is not to say that I haven’t experienced some memorable New Year’s moments:

There was that big, gay party in San Francisco when the Weather Girls were lowered from the ceiling on a stage singing their hit, “It’s Raining Men.”

That time at a Breakfast at Tiffany’s theme party in New York where Karen and I were the only ones that bothered to dress up. When it was time to go, we couldn’t get a cab in the snow and walked a dozen freezing blocks in stilettos, tight black dresses, and opera length gloves. We gave up on getting a ride and had a 3:00am breakfast at an all-night diner.

There was an artsy warehouse party on the bay in San Francisco for the New Year’s welcoming 1984. At midnight David Bowie’s "1984" was thundering. Magic-ish.

There was more than one New Year’s Eve spent getting lost in the Hollywood Hills while trying to find “the party” resulting in midnight being celebrated cursing in the car. All dressed up and nowhere (that we could find with our crappy directions) to go.

I have concluded that the big New Year’s thing just isn’t my deal. Later tonight, in the first moments of 2010, I plan to be where I am every night – asleep in bed with a hyperactive dog, a cranky cat, Mr. Rosenberg, and quite possibly a stray 3 year-old.
And I’ve never had more of a life than I do right this minute.

Happy New Year.