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.