December 26, 2002

Today is the day to eat until you can't hear.

Did you have a good Christmas? Yes? Do you not celebrate Christmas? No? Okay then.

If you're like me, you're back at work today, and 'loving it' (The way Leslie Nealson loved raw sewage in "The Naked Gun.") You know what's a good way to pass the time? Sending me the stories of your worst New Years Eve ever. I bet you can top the entries below. Especially if you make them up.

Worst New Years Eve Ever

From Annie Logue:

Worst New Year's Eve? 1999/2000 was bad. The water main went out on our apartment, but no one could fix it until people from Pacific Bell and PG&E came out to mark the sidewalk. But this was Y2K time, see, so all the utility companies were more concerned with the mass pandemonium that was sure to occur. So, I spent an entire weekend without water but with a diaper-wearing two-year-old. Thank heavens for Purell.

From Chris Monks:

My junior year of high school I went to a New Year’s Eve party hosted by a friend. My friend lived directly next store to Bill Walton, NBA legend, who was playing for the Boston Celtics at the time. I was a Sixers fan.

So the party was a ruckus affair, not unlike any party hosted by a sixteen year-old girl with lots of other sixteen year-olds and with alcohol and with a heavy emphasis on pastel colored clothing. In one room, Club Noveau’s “Lean on Me” played continuously. It wasn’t the most eclectic mixed tape, but you could do “The Wop” to it, so most party-goers deemed it “Fresh.”

It seemed as though every sixteen year-old in Cambridge was at this party and, not unlike any function containing every sixteen year-old in a large urban town, a fight was bound to break out. So a fight broke out. I forget over what, but given we were all sixteen it must have had something to do with “dissing.” I was never one to dispense a dis, and especially not in a large crowd full of sixteen year olds who’ve been drinking, so no matter what Bill Walton still says to this day, I did not say to him “Pass me a Bud Light, you perpetual-bad-hair-day-tie-dye-wearing-mofo.” Regardless, it wasn’t whatever Bill Walton thinks I said that started the fight, as we both are practitioners of non-violent opposition. Thus instead of duking it out, he gave me a mini-lecture on John Wooden’s Pyramid of Success, and I gave him advice on where he should get a haircut and how baths are good things. But just as we were about to embrace and forgive and forget and take a shower together, a fight broke out in the kitchen, and in a matter of seconds there were sirens and police dogs. Bill Walton’s wife had called the cops and the hard fist of the law came raining down on every sixteen year-old in Cambridge and Bill Walton. Those three hours in prison were not a piece of cake for Bill and me, but we practiced the pick and roll and sang bad covers of R&B songs to pass the time. Before we knew it the clock had struck twelve and a new year had come. What a time.