The Log

It’s 8:00 PM on New Year’s Day and I am just starting to feel lucid again. After a multi-pronged evening of partying, jockeying for a table in a crowded Gramercy diner and finally closing out the night with cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon at an overheated bar, I curled up in my bed with Pookie the Fearless at around 6:00 AM. The sun was just inching over the horizon. The overnight made me quite familiar with the pre-dawn hours, but it had been a while since I had seen it through a champagne buzz while wearing a burgundy party dress. It had been a while since I had closed out a bar. It had been a while since I’d had as much fun as I did on New Year’s Eve.

It all started in Hoboken. Who knew? When I got the invite for Dave’s party a few weeks ago I was worried I wouldn’t make it out. Dave lives pretty far from the PATH station and on a night such as New Year’s I didn’t know if I would be able to get a cab back at 3:00 AM. After all, weather on New Year’s Eve can be a mixed bag. I’ve seen years where it was mild and 50 degrees, such as last night. Other years there have been blizzards.

But as weeks led up to the party it seemed that everyone in my old skool Syracuse crowd was coming out of the woodwork and I was getting peer pressured into going. People came in from Los Angeles and Maryland. The guest list read like a Who’s Who of everyone I’d ever cut a rug with over the past ten years or so. These were the same people who had had snuck illegal beers down to the pool at the hotel before Debbie and Glen’s wedding. They had dressed in their cheesy best Godfrey’s 80s party last summer. Perhaps they were even in the Poconos hot tub back in 2002 when someone threw in a watermelon.

How could I miss a good time with such a motley crew? I prepared myself for the party by hitting the stores in Union Square for a new dress. I blew out my hair, bought a disposable camera and picked up Jaime and Nasreen for the subway/PATH/cab ride out to Dave’s place. Dave has lived in the same apartment for well over five years. Our friends have gotten engaged/married/pregnant/promoted/demoted and graduated since Dave has lived there. He’s like the granddaddy of apartment renters.

Like any great Dave event, the bar was full and the music was jumping. I guess we arrived around 9:30 PM. Nasreen got right to work making some sort of red Tom Collins mix for everyone. I started taking pictures. Next thing I knew it was 11:45 PM and Dave was handing everyone champagne. I guess he ran out of regular glasses because I was handed champagne in something that looked like a small vase. But it was my champagne and my small vase and I was more than happy with it. At the stroke of minute we all downed our bubbly and Guns n’ Roses “Sweet Child of Mine” blared over the stereo speakers.

It was a fitting way to ring in the New Year. Shortly after I started talking with another guy named Dave. Somehow in the conversation it came up that his dad was a gynecologist. After a few glasses of champagne this seemed incredibly funny to me. Dave, probably used to such a reaction, started saying things like, “I can say words like ‘vulva’ and ‘uterus’ with a straight face!” That pretty much set the tone for the rest our evening together. (Never underestimate the power of toilet humor.) He was also from Stamford, Connecticut, which is right next door to Norwalk, Connecticut, my old stomping grounds. At around 3:00 AM we tried to get a cab back to the PATH station, only to be hung up on by the dispatcher because there was an hour wait. Left with no other choice, Dave and I had to walk the mile back to the station. Did I mention the three inch heels I was wearing?

So we walked and talked and decided that as soon as we got back in Manhattan we would go to a diner and have eggs. It seemed like a simple plan, that is, until we got to the Lyric Diner in Gramercy and is was PACKED with drunks. And when I say drunks, I mean that people were falling asleep at the counter. Eyeliner ran down women’s faces and the waiters seemed more than a little haggard.

I had to use a little elbow grease to get us a booth. It was strange to be so wide awake at 4:00 AM and to be in a restaurant filled with so many other people full of energy. We got eggs and mozzarella sticks, talked about our brothers and sisters and assorted other Connecticut topics.

I was ready to go home but The Black Bear Bar across from the Lyric Diner was still open and Dave and I went in. At this point I had no idea why I was still following this guy around, when he was essentially a stranger. But I was having a good time and I believe it was Marlene Dietrich who once said, “Isn’t it funny how ‘What the hell’ is always the right choice?’”

Dave and I scored some spots at the bar and ordered some Pabst. I was one of about three women in the bar at that point, so we played a game to see how many drunk, lonely men would hit on me while Dave went to the men’s room. There were two, a pair of friends named Adam and PJ who gave me some multicolored rubber bracelets. They also continued to try and talk to me even when Dave was sitting right next me. It was funny to see the caveman instincts come out.

After a few Pabsts the bar was closing and Dave and I were back on Third Avenue, which was as dark and deserted as I had ever seen it. (However, the Lyric Diner was still hoppin’.) Dave walked me back to my place, I told him to call me and I went inside. Exhaustion had suddenly hit hard. I peeled off my dress, climbed into bed and made room for Pooks.

The next thing I knew it was three in the afternoon and I could hear people walking around outside. I spent the afternoon wandering around Union Square and south of 14th Street, looking for coffee and a dry cleaner for my dress. I saw dogs and owners peruse books at the St. Mark’s bookstore. I saw a homeless man devour Godiva chocolates in Union Square Park. I walked as far south as Rivington and was amazed to see what a ghost town the Lower East Side was. Tourists filled up Katz’s Deli, but everything else, from Pianos to Las Venus to all the little clothing shops, were in lockdown. The Pink Pony was open for hangover meals and I found a little burger joint that made me a smoothie. I had neither the energy nor the attention span for a movie, so eventually I walked north on Second Avenue and headed home.

So now it’s January. It’s 2005. I’m only twenty-one hours into it, but thus far it seems to be going all right.