Last year was probably one of the most awkward. A random house party in Manhattan Beach with Leo pestering me with "You're fucking kissing someone this year, So@24. I'm not even kidding." and me wanting to crawl into a dark hole when that ball dropped. For the record, I kissed no one. I pretended I had a call on my cellphone and ducked out in the backyard to "take my call".
This year is going to be different. Leo and I have already started preparations to host our OWN hootinany this time around. Leo's friend and old boss happens to have a large dwelling up in the Hollywood Hills. What better place to count down from 10? I mean, right? Right?
To solidify that I'm going to have the best New Years I've ever had since being on this Earth for 24 years, I've thrown in a variable that will surely not fail. My friend Beth is flying down with me from and staying. Remember she was my faux-girlfriend for that one night?
A little history. Put Beth and I in cocktail attire, give us a fifth of Seagram's whiskey and a liter of 7 Up and we're a force to be reckoned with. Put a tie around my neck and I swear it's like Frodo wearing the ring. He becomes possessed with power greater than a mortal man, yet the longer her wears it... it becomes his ultimate downfall.Beth: I can't even think about New Years. Seriously. And you know how we get if we even attempt a little to dress up. That means extra shots and extra foolery. You and I are getting lo
st before the party even begins.Leo and I have already started the invite. And if you've kept up with this blog, you'll know that we take our invites very seriously. I wrote one when I was still poisoning my body with those sake bombs. When I got home that night, Leo suggested that I lay off the invites and let him take over as captain. I agree.
"But don't take my word for it! Ba da da!" - LaVar Burton, Reading Rainbow
On snaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaps.
So. It's that fucking time of the year again.
You know what I'm talking about. The time of the year when it suddenly turns 12:00 am and the rest of society suddenly expects you to turn into Cassanova and plant a kiss on an unsuspecting wench.
Well fuck you, Society. I've been trying this technique for over a year. Do you really think just because it's December 31st that these fraulines are going to be flipping up their skirts and saying "take me, you squinty-eyed knave, take me?" No. It's not that easy.
Unless you have alcohol. Top shelf. And a setting that gives off the appearance that you have money.
Which is where our good friend comes in.
House in the Hollywood Hills. A heated pool. Booze. A hired bartender. Some swanky velvet rope (to keep us TRUE partiers from falling off the balcony and causing a messy lawsuit to our generous host).
So. Do you want to spend New Years at some crowded bar where you're going to throw down $65.60 on a bar tab where, if the planets are aligned and the cave dwelling carvings ring true, you might actually kiss some one attractive for .34 seconds? Or do you want to dress up in a tie and actually get down with some people with substance.
Choice wisely.*
I'm out.
* Yes, I typed "choice". In hindsight, I know it was the wrong word to use. I was drunk. Bite me.
