Like everybody else, on December 31, I went out to celebrate the change from one unit of a time on an arbitrary calendar to another. Think about that. Essentially what we’re saying at midnight every January 1 is, “Yay! The day that some Catholic guy decided to call the first one over 400 years ago is starting! Make out with me!” I’m going to start celebrating other arbitrary days and use those as excuses to drink champagne and kiss strangers. Just a warning: you might want to watch out for me on May 22. It’s gonna get ill.
Nevertheless, on New Year’s Eve I headed out in search of a celebration. This was something of a last second decision, as initially I was planning on taking it easy…which is really just something people say when they would actually prefer to be engaging in some social activity, but are precluded from doing so by some set of circumstances. You know, like not being invited anywhere, or having an acute attack of narcolepsy. Those kinds of circumstances. In my case, most of my friends were celebrating at a party in New Jersey. I couldn’t join them because I was on call at work. Well, that and I don’t go to New Jersey. The place frightens me. It’s like the Land of the Lost over there. I’m getting cold sweats just thinking about it. So, instead, I decided to meet a colleague in — gulp — Williamsburg. Since I’ve already denigrated New Jersey, and I have no real desire to turn this into a geography-based ranting diatribe, let me just say I don’t like Williamsburg. I have my reasons. At least, I think I do. Or I might just be an irrational crazy person. Six of one, really…
In the interest of saving time, and to avoid the nonsensical commute to Wburg via train — seriously, why the fuck do I have to go into another borough in order to travel to another neighborhood in this borough? This really needs to be explained. Where can I learn about this? Is it on Twitter? It should really be on Twitter — I hopped in a cab. I told the driver my intended destination (feeling just a little ashamed of it), and settled in. I amused myself by watching the delightfully attractive and nameless anchorwoman on the tiny screen report that it was, in fact, New Year’s Eve. Hard-hitting journalism. Compelling and rich.
The moment when the little TV screen (does that thing have a technical name?) started to make me nauseous just happened to coincide with our entrance to the BQE, so I killed it in favor of watching the traffic. As luck would have it, I was just in time to see the most amusing thing I would see all night. (Well, except for maybe the two gay men sitting next to me on a couch and speaking nasally Chinese to each other I encountered later on. I really need to develop a drug habit.) A white stretch Navigator had blown a tire and was broken down on the shoulder of the BQE. Several of the occupants — at least 4 twenty something men and women in their NYE party finest — had vacated their penis-shaped carbon glutton in an apparent attempt to try to solve the problem.
Dear reader, I ask you to briefly consider this scenario: your limo has just blown a tire. It’s ten o’clock on New Year’s Eve. You’re stopped on the shoulder of the BQE. It has been not even a week since the biggest December blizzard in New York in the last twenty years. There’s still snow all over the roadside, amalgamated with an awesome combination of slush and dirt and road funk. You’re wearing your best shinysluttyparty dress (my favorite kind!) and some fuck me (or fuck you) heels, and you’re probably like 3 champagne and Red Bulls deep. Is the first idea that crosses your mind really to hop out and try to fix it yourself? And if so, does your plan of action include standing in front of the limo and staring at the tire? Caaaauuuuse that’s what this chick was doing.
Seriously, girl, did you think that would help? Or was that just what you wanted to be doing at that moment? I guess it’s possible she felt obligated to lend some moral support. Or maybe she had some kind of MacGyver tire iron tucked into those black pumps. Or maybe she had just finished peeing. Those are about the only scenarios where I can see what was going on there making sense. Incidentally, if I ever actually see a woman in a shinysluttyparty dress pull off her Jimmy Choos and start working a set of lug nuts, I will immediately propose marriage. I’ll have no choice. Women don’t get more perfect than that. At least, not while wearing clothes, or not holding a sandwich.
But, if it’s me, I’m staying in the Navigator, having a drink, probably watching some of my fellow party goers do lines off each other’s ass cheeks (oh, grow up. You think that’s NOT happening in this city?), and waiting for the limo company to send over a new monstrosity for me to party in. Then again, I don’t really like to stand around on the highway…in the dark…in the winter. Like I said, maybe I’m an illogical crazy person.
At any rate, my New Year’s sucked, thanks for asking. I rang in 2011 in Bushwick, in some random ass apartment, with approximately 14 extremely well-dressed (read: gay) men and 3 kind-of-cute-in-an-outlet-mall-sort-of-way girls I had known for a total of about 26 minutes. I didn’t even make out with a stranger. Which means you all have all the more reason to watch your ass on May 22.