If you haven’t gathered, I’m not much of a Happy Holidays type.
My favorite bad New Year’s story, 2004:
I’d just moved to New York. I was invited to a party after performing at an open mike.
I had one friend there to hang out with, Fred, a 47 year old gay man.
He’s dead now.
Anyhow, somebody at an open mike invited me to a party after I performed. He said it was a costume party and to dress as my alter ego.
My alter ego on that New Years’ Eve was a decrepit old lady dominatrix…
Like so, but with hooker boots and minus the babushka.
Turns out to be a Huge party in which I am one of the only people in costume. I proceeded to get drunk as quickly as possible. I lost Fred in the crowd and got a call on my cell phone a half hour later.
He was in a cab, horribly sick.
It’s hard to tell a story about New Years Eve when it involves somebody I care about that’s dead now without entirely swerving off the path.
Anyhow, Fred called: “Caila, I am sick. I am so so sorry. I got really sick. I threw up. I looked for you and couldn’t find you. I had to leave, I’m in a cab. I’m sorry, Good night.”
I spent a bit more time meandering at the party, I joined in on a few conversations, but the alcohol wasn’t quelling my lonliness enough and I left.
I wound up drunkenly staggering home, getting lost in Bed Stuy, eating a falafel alone at 2am after inviting a stranger I met on the subway to go with me (he said sorry, he was on his way to meet someone) and waiting in a line for a taxicab for about an hour in the cold.
I think that’s the last time I really attempted to Do Something on a New Years’ Eve.
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