New Year’s Eve, or New Year’s Evil?

New Year’s Eve — long known as amateur night for all its novice partiers (the ones who puke in the backseat of the Uber) — is a sloppy spectacle charged with debauchery, douchebaggery and, on occasion, responsible revelry. 

It’s tailored to the same people who get all giddy and bug-eyed over the very idea of a celebration, be it Mardi Gras, spring break or a bachelorette party. It’s all about skin-deep decadence, dude! Now put your tongue back in your face.

I’ve done my share of Jim Morrisonian indulgence on New Year’s Eve, long time ago when a frilly party hat and chintzy noisemaker didn’t mortify me. Now even streamers and confetti make me blush and I really sink into a sulfurous funk when I see giant eyeglasses with frames spelling “2023” in glitter. Outsized and clownish, they look fit for an orca at SeaWorld. 

But I’m not allergic to a robust get-together with wine, folks and song, even though I shy away from them year by year. Hell, tonight I’m begging off a gathering of five for drinks in a living room. And it’s a pretty safe bet that I won’t be watching Anderson Cooper and Andy Cohen get hilariously-slash-obnoxiously tipsy for the Times Square ball drop on CNN. (The dropping ball — what does it all mean?)

My last NYE soiree was pre-Covid, naturally, and it was fine, fun, chill. Maybe 10 of us, imbibing, blabbing, noshing, each one getting visibly more exhausted as midnight ticked-tocked to blast off. I get bored just thinking about it.

The rest of you tear it up, safely, sagely. Wear the dumb glasses, hurl confetti, drink up. But don’t bother anyone, rankle your fellow revelers. Especially the hardworking, don’t-want-to-deal-wth-drunks Uber drivers, who’d also really appreciate it if you didn’t barf in the backseat. I’ve talked to these people, and believe me, tonight they are dreading you. Don’t be that guy.