Sex, Drugs, and Nudity on New Year’s Eve

The English language has yet to devise a single word to adequately describe my feelings for the holidays. The entire month of December – and that beloved, drunken evening known as New Year’s Eve in particular – has always been fraught with heartache, loss and occasional unsolicited nudity. Instead of employing pedestrian terms like “dread,” “fear,” or “sheer, unconditional panic,” the best way to illustrate my aversion for this time of year is through complicated yet familiar thoughts we’ve all experienced, like “the disgust you feel the day after an imbecilic president is re-elected,” or “that sinking feeling you get when you’re watching a sub-par episode of Charles in Charge and you realize your left leg is on fire.” To drill this home even further, I’ll share a few of my personal moments from New Year’s Eves past, presented in the always-entertaining bullet point format:

1998: I find myself lying on the floor and handcuffed to the foot of an unknown girl’s bed while another couple “sleeps” on the bed itself. I’m half-drunk, half-asleep and in a matter of minutes, half-clothed. Imagine the priceless look on my face, however, when I discover that not only am I without a condom, but that one of the people on the bed is an ex-girlfriend. Along with becoming yet another footnote in a long line of humiliating, holiday-themed sexual encounters, this will mark the first and last time I make out with a girl with a pierced tongue. Oh, one more thing: the seductive music this girl deemed fit for our anonymous New Year’s tryst? The soundtrack to Blade Runner.

2000: Out of my skull on a laundry list of illegal substances, I find myself staying at the San Francisco home of two bona fide 60s hippie burnouts. Actually, “home” really isn’t the proper term to describe the place. “Vaguely creepy, clothing-optional, secluded cabin in the mountains” is more apt. While there, I’m treated to such time-honored holiday pleasures as naked swimming, naked hiking, and something called “Goquet” (a family-invented golf/croquet hybrid that also happens to be clothing-optional). The topper? In a drug-induced haze, I slowly come to the frightening realization that a fully nude 65-year-old man is serving me turkey.

2003: On my birthday (December 28) I’m informed that not only have I been fired from my job of five years, but because of a past run-in with the law, I’m required to go back to my hometown and perform 200 hours of community service. New Year’s Eve finds me drunk and alone, contemplating the many ways one could kill oneself with a half-bottle of whiskey and a tire iron. When I finally sober up sometime in early February, I move back in with my parents and spend the next two months vacuuming floors at a nursing home, as well as assisting a few of the more catatonic residents during rousing games of bingo. I pine for Milwaukee while sleeping on the floor of my empty boyhood bedroom.

…Which brings us, more or less, to the present day. Sure, my New Year’s Eves have been loaded with enough awkward moments and humiliating sex scenes to make even Todd Solondz blush (I’ve chosen not to write about my rather intimate holiday encounter with a VCR), but hey, 2005 wasn’t such a bad year: I started writing for this fine monthly you now hold in your hands, I landed a gig as First Assistant Director on a sci-fi flick, and I managed to have a few laughs and drinks along the way. Hopefully, New Year’s Eve 2005 will follow suit.

So, as we quietly make our way through the final weeks of December and put the first half of this decade firmly behind us, let me go against my better judgment and wish one and all a happy holiday season, and a safe and joyful New Year. Let it be filled with drunken friends, forgiving families and all the unembarrassed nudity you can stand.  VS

Matt Wild is ¼ of the rock & roll band Holy Mary Motor Club. This year, he and the rest of the boys will be spending New Year’s Eve at Bremen Cafe. You should, too.