The worst New Years Eve

Sitting at home on the biggest party night of the year, hanging out near my wife who is resting, recuperating from yesterday’s surgery. My daughter is watching an episode of I Love Lucy with our new 8-week old lab, while my son vanquishes foes in a videogame.

To drown out the distant screams of PlayStation avatars and studio audience laughter from half a century ago, Pandora is providing a stellar mix of trip-hop music while I peck away at the laptop.

And I’m at peace with this tranquil, if not downright dull domestic suburban scene on New Year’s Eve.

Several years ago, this would not have been the case.

Thanks to absolutely miserable New Years Eves I spent as a youth – file all under the “good, clean fun” tag that comes with celebrating the occasion with church folks – I felt the need as an adult to make up for lost time. The result: Huge pressure to experience the zenith of partying every December 31.

I trace it all back to that NYEve spent with about 200 area youth group kids – at Peek’s Family Funeral Home in Westminster.

Who knew this facility would have a giant room, large enough to accommodate a bunch of blissfully ignorant (and captive) kids, tables full of pizzas and Shasta, and a movie projector ready to play a double feature of The Cat From Outer Space and Seven Brides For Seven Brothers?

Clearly, being in the vicinity of the deceased wasn’t the worst part of the evening. Not even close.

Because whatever genius youth minister "planned" this gathering apparently neglected to check on seating options for the hundreds of kids. Folding metal chairs were at a premium on this special night.

So there I was, probably clad in my best Hang Ten shirt and Toughskins, trying unsuccessfully to sit Indian-style on the concrete floor with my greasy paper plate of pizza, enduring four hours of intergalactic feline wackiness and some dancing idiots (in the woods, I think).

I vaguely remember some youth minister carefully stepping his way through the masses of slackjawed kids sprawled on the floor to get to the projector, just in time (allegedly) to pre-empt the lackluster conclusion of Seven Brides with a half-hearted countdown.

“Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one . . . happy new year.”

After about 90 seconds of forced and manufactured enthusiasm at the appearance of the new year, as well as the exchange of some stiff, youth group hugs, the minister at the projector deemed the celebration complete – and sentenced us to spend those precious, first few minutes of 1978 watching the end of Seven Brides.

Released from our bondage, we shuffled out of the funeral home/entertainment hall in a daze. Finally, I snapped out of my hard concrete + bad cinema induced lethargy to suggest to my peeps that we go have some fun.

Let’s go toilet paper the Smith’s house!

Ahh, yes . . . more good, clean fun.

Suffice it to say, we were caught by Mr. Smith, who politely insisted that my cronies and I clean up the rather significant mess we created in his yard (and 20-foot trees).

I finally rolled home sometime around 3 in the morning, totally sober and in absolute control of my faculties -- apparently so I could vividly recall and relive for the rest of my life every painful detail of this night, the worst New Year’s Eve.

teeth and tuxes

A few thoughts going through these guys' minds:

--"This was definitely worth $60."

--"The way my hair looks tonite will never go out of style."

--"I hope this picture never ends up on Funegro."

One must also appreciate the diversity of the club . . .

the counter's dream

Last nite I had a dream. Part of it took place at church where, before worship services began, one of the ministers got up and exhorted the crowd with "I hope you enjoy the show today." The show?

And if that weren't enough, during the mid-service meet & greet -- the church's 7th inning stretch -- that same minister returned to the microphone. "OK. Let me encourage you to make your way back to your seats now. When you get back to your seats, be sure to check the attendance cards in the back of the pew in front of you, because during the break, one of our ushers has placed one $50 Carrabba's gift card in one of those rack of cards! Good luck!"

Indeed, this ill-advised promotional stunt in last nite's dream may have been a foreshadowing of this morning's anemic count of 527 -- and the sort of dramatic steps that might be needed to restore attendance to the dizzying heights of two years ago.

I'll check with my new Assembly Counters group on Facebook to see if it is normal for an emotionally invested counter to have these sort of prophetic dreams.


Random thought: What if brands could arrange for product placement in your dreams?

Leftover Meeting Food

- Food

r.i.p. carlotta

We buried our beloved black lab in the backyard about an hour ago.

The inevitability of her condition gave me time to dig her grave this afternoon, a most surreal activity as she hobbled around in pain just feet away from the pit in the unseasonably warm afternoon air.

Symbolically, the temperature plummeted as we lured Carlotta into the car for her last ride, a sad and quiet trip with our family to meet our compassionate vet who finally eased her cancerous pain.

I rejoice that yesterday we got to share a great afternoon with her at Arbor Creek Preserve, watching her come to life as she splashed in the creek and occasionally trotted.

And we are forever grateful for this member of our family who constantly surprised us with her capacity to please and her ability to bring joy.