Wednesday, December 31, 2003


As I keep telling the Monk, I'm saving my persona for our season finale. Until then, I can't help but drop hints along the way. If you care to try, see what you can get out of this:

I've been invited to a New Year's Eve party, which I won't be attending. I decided long ago that I don't enjoy celebrating "that giddy boozy interval between what was and what will be." (I actually don't know anyone who admits enjoying New Year's Eve parties--big ones, that is--now what does that say about my circle of acquaintances?) Looking back upon all my prior New Year's Eves (and there have been a frightening number of them), I can think of only three evenings with fondness:
1. A big boozy party I attended as a child. The boozers were my parents and their friends, none of whom were able to get babysitters that evening, of course, and so in desperation brought the kids along and stowed us on a different floor. My friends and I took turns executing daring raids into the grownup territory, returning with candy contraband and tales of how the adults didn't notice a thing, which we found hysterically funny and proof of how dull grownups are and how clever we were.

2. A dinner party I attended which culminated with a flaming dessert (actually, I think I always enjoy New Year's Eve dinner parties).

3. A lonely New Year's Eve I spent in New York City. I had moved there only two months before and knew few people other than my roommate. As we shared a bottle of champagne, we heard a strange noise outside. A child accompanied by someone who appeared to be her father was walking down the dark and empty street in front of our apartment building banging on a pot with a wooden spoon.
Well, I'm not in possession of a wayback machine and haven't been invited to any dinner parties this year so I've decided to go with the pot thing and press everyone I'm with into service.

Listen for us tonight. Oh yes, and have a Happy New Year.


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