New Year's Eve 2007/2008 was not like some I've enjoyed in the past. I didn't stay up late with my parents watching the Village People sing "Ready For The Eighties" on TV at midnight. I didn't get puking drunk on vodka and Faygo red pop with the other guys in my comedy troupe. I didn't make out with a real live girl for the first time. I also didn't have sex for the first time with that same girl the same night in the backseat of an olive green Pinto. I didn't go on a first date with a woman I'd end up in love with for four fruitless but powerful years. I didn't see the Queerdaddies play at the Howland House, so I didn't hear "Boredom Thing" for the first time. The Clutters didn't play at a house party. I didn't drive back from Chicago nursing a hangover 24 hours after the Apollo Nine opened for the Sea & Cake at Lounge Ax, and Noelle wasn't by my side gradually getting sicker and sicker with the flu as each mile flew past. I didn't drink a bottle of champagne alone and fall asleep at 10:00pm while watching a Charlie Chaplin movie. I didn't kiss Suzanne Howard at midnight. I didn't listen to The Scotts drunkenly chant "5-4-3-2-1 -- Happy New Year!" over and over all night and fool people into joining in every time. I didn't threaten to throw Mark Deming down a flight of stairs. I didn't hang out with Vanessa Lucas but get so wasted that at 3:00am I couldn't quite remember where we went or what we did. E.J. and Matt didn't take off the stupid punk rock records I was playing and slap on my secret stash of Mamas & Papas platters, to the delight of everyone assembled -- and when they left they didn't run screaming for help in the streets in an effort to bring police attention to our party. That also didn't happen.

What did happen is that I made out with my beautiful wife and watched several episodes of Knots Landing. Beat that. You can't.