I hate New Year’s Eve. Most holidays encourage you to get out there and have some fun, dammit, but New Year’s demands it. If you’re not drunk off your nelly ass, covered in confetti, blowing noisemakers, and screaming for more by midnight in the middle of Times Square, then you’re a…well, there aren’t really words to describe the depths of your loserdom. You’re a complete waste of perfectly good DNA. You might as well just stay under the bedsheets reading about string theory for the next 365 days and try your luck again.
Me, I don’t respond well to such high-pressure pitches: not from telemarketers, not from used car salesmen, not from tweaked-out hustlers in toilet stalls of seedy downtown bars, and certainly not from the holiday gods. So for many years, I tried to avoid New Year’s Eve altogether. This proved not so easy, and, right on schedule, I wound up feeling like a total loser. Mission accomplished, Dick Clark! Are you happy now, you old bat?
Last year, Jonno and I decided a change was in order, and we hosted our very own party. I think it went off pretty damn well, so we’re having another one ce soir. Of course, you’re invited: if you’re around and don’t know where the hell we live, just gimme a call or drop a line for directions.
One small change this year: just for kicks, we opted for a dress code. In homage to the late, great Jackie 60, we have provided our guests with the following sartorial options:
Miss Jane Hathaway Ornithological Expedition Realness
Cleopatra Jones Kung Fu Glamour Princess
Crocodile Dundee Pith Helmet Fisting Top
Amber Waves Coke Whore Effect
Audra Lindley Macrame Muu-Muu Couture
Aubrey Beardsley Neurasthenic Pansy Boy
Big Dick Cheney Drama Queen Leather Daddy
Harajuku Schoolgirl Super Lolita Now
Stevie Nicks Magical Suspension of Disbelief
Lindsay Wagner Ninja Showgirl Fembot
but jeans and a t-shirt will do.
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