Dec. 31, 2009, 9:05 p.m.: It’s New Year’s Eve. I’m staying home tonight, alone. This is because W. is bartending at O’Connells and I’ve got a deadline–this deadline, for the column you’re reading now. It’s due in two days, so, obviously, I can’t go out tonight. Not the way you’re supposed to go out on New Year’s Eve, which means heavy drinking at the bar, an after-hours party, a group stumblefest to Lucy’s Tavern at 6 a.m., then continued drinking until either the sun goes down again or you pass out in a pool of your own sweat and vomit (swomit?)
This is the sort of rumpus that will pretty much ruin your entire next day and half the day after and, realistically, there’s just no way for a person to write a column under those conditions, unless, of course, the column is called “My Head is Exploding and I Have to Throw Up Again.”
