1/1/10 By The Hour
12:00 AM: Immobile in a crowded Greenwich, CT, bar, staring up at a TV screen as 2010 rolls in. Instead of “Auld Lang Syne,” this establishment rocks some weak-ass Lifehouse/Rascal Flatts dreck. I squeeze my way outside to watch a light, wet snowfall turn the serene Greenwich streets into a veritable death trap. Nearby, a few bros argue over some kind of personal slight they’ll inevitably forget about come morning.
1:00 AM: A live band inside the bar busts out a Weezer cover. The band that follows them plays two Green Day covers in a row. 1995 has smacked me hard in the face, knocking loose memories of the PSATs, Caesar haircuts, and my hopeless eleventh grade crush. No matter how far I run, I can never escape the ’90s.
2:00 AM: My friends and I leave Greenwich for the grittier burg of White Plains, NY. Twenty minutes are spent attempting to pry one drunken associate away from the bar employee he has set his sights on. He wanted hot animal machine action in the backseat of a Prius. He got a kiss on the cheek and a gentle shove out the door. On the ride to White Plains, this individual—let’s call him Rex Runion—begins screaming like a Vietnam vet having the worst flashback of his life. It should be noted he is adorned in a trench coat and black hat like Inspector Clouseau’s hip nephew from the Bronx.
3:00 AM: Sitting in a White Plains living room. Someone puts on John Lennon’s “Imagine.” The guy sitting across from me immediately gets a nosebleed. It is determined that hard drinking and somber millionaire rock do not mix. A few people try to get a game of Slap Cup going. I make a Slap Chop joke that is not met with enthusiasm. Rex Runion is pacing madly, extolling the virtues of Kodiak chewing tobacco. The phrase “Kodiac arrest” is used liberally.
4:00 AM: It is suddenly decided that the men at this dying after-party should strip down to their skivvies and run around the block. Concerned that my underwear are too stained for anyone’s comfort, I beg off citing a recent bout of Bronchitis. Shirtless and underfed white boys run out into the cold. Half an hour later, two of them return to a locked front door. They are only let in after the cops show up with the other pair of bare-chested party freaks. No charges are filed.
5:00 AM: People start going to bed. Five of us must share two couches, an under-inflated air mattress, and the living room floor. It is not comfortable for anyone. Adding insult to injury is the never-ending inebriated antics of Rex Runion. He takes one of the couches but chooses racial slurs and burping over sleep. When it is determined he might puke, someone hands him an acoustic guitar. I’m still trying to figure out that logic (I believe Rex was instructed to “puke in the hole”). Rex spends half an hour attempting to tune the guitar, partly because he’s so drunk but also because the guitar has only three strings and Rex keeps fiddling with the wrong tuning pegs. Eventually landing on an acceptable sound, our now pants-free pal launches into “the firsht sawng” he “evrr wrote” on guitar – a charming ditty called “Mark & David Suck.” By the fifteenth time, I was hooked.
6:00 AM: A partygoer slumbering in another area enters the living room and attempts to cross undetected. Everyone wakes up and Rex immediately shouts out, “Kodiac arrest!” This is so inherently funny to me I nearly laugh myself hoarse.
7:00 AM: Sleep, or something resembling sleep. Rex snores in such a manner I cannot be sure if it’s real or performance art.
8:00 AM: I have a dream in which my parents are arrested for leaving their Christmas decorations up too long. I wake up to find myself face down on the floor and unable to feel my arms. I’m glad they managed to rest peacefully.
10:00 AM: Rex gets up, walks into the kitchen, and falls asleep in a sitting position at the table. I immediately take his spot on the couch.
11:00 AM: Everyone is awake and berating Rex for his behavior. More racial epithets are thrown out, including a schoolyard chant that could probably be translated into a hit song for Dead Prez. A decision is made to get food at a nearby diner.
12:00 PM: At the diner. I order Disco Fries. The waiter hears “Crisco Fries.” When my dish of severely battered and waffled potato wedges arrive, I am taken aback. I demand proper Disco Fries, with “cheese and gravy and the whole nine.” My dish is returned; they get the cheese right, but the “gravy” is easily identified as Chef Boyardee Beef-a-Roni. I vow never to return to this pee-infested heck hole.
1:00 PM: Back at party central, a very horny male guest shoves his hand down his pants in front of everyone and starts slowly masturbating. No one really takes issue as this person is dressed like Han Solo and totally pulling it off. After watching the Millennium Falcon Jack-Off Special for a few minutes, the friends I came with and I decide to drive back to Greenwich to visit their famous Bruce Museum (mainly to figure out what the hell it is). It takes about forty minutes to get our act together because we are all insanely exhausted.
2:00 PM: We discover the Bruce Museum is closed on New Year’s Day. Nothing near the building’s exterior really tips us off to what’s inside. Dinosaur bones? Statues of famous Scientologists? Bruce Springsteen’s old soul patches? We say, “Fuck it!” and drive back to NYC.
3:00 PM: Drop my pal in the Bronx. Unfortunately, he owns the car and I must take the 6 train from the very top of the map to Canal Street (near the bottom of the map). I accidentally leave my headphones in my friend’s glove compartment. I know I can’t get them back that day even though homeboy lives five minutes from the train station; it was made crystal clear that Dude Meister would drop us off, speed home, take the dump he’d been holding in since before the Bruce Museum, and go to bed. Thus, I must entertain myself with the sounds of the subway for two hours instead of whatever bullshit I have on my iPod.
5:00 PM: Arrive home to discover my roommate has eaten all of my Doritos. I am too blasted to really care. I put on pajamas and crawl into bed. Sweet, merciful sleep.
7:00 PM: Dorito Eater is watching Lord Of The Rings and Frodo’s whining wakes me up. I turn on the computer to fiddle with some work. Part of said work concerns a video taped suicide. This is too depressing for New Year’s Day. A decision is made to watch a “Frontline” episode about global warming. Yeah, now THIS is the right level of depressing for New Year’s Day. Before Al Gore can come on and start actin’ a fool, sleep pimp slaps me into submission.