What the ????

This about sums up my night:


It was the strangest New Years I’ve ever celebrated.

Most people approach New Years Eve with a mixture of dread and delight. On one hand, it is the greatest party evening of the year, a night to get formal and drink champagne, an excuse to find yourself unbelievably wasted with your favorite friends. On the other, it’s hyped-up and almost guaranteed to be the biggest letdown of the year. Tears will be shed. Someone will get drunk and do something stupid. And – guaranteed – potentially awesome plans will fall through.

Me? I always look forward to New Years. I think it’s an awesome idea, composed of two things I love to do: dress up and drink. To me, it’s a guaranteed good time – whether I’m playing pong in the basement with my family or partying hard in downtown Boston. This year I couldn’t have cared less.

The morning of New Year’s Eve, I told my brother I’d do whatever he told me to do. Seizing the opportunity, he barked out orders: “Get ready. We leave in an hour and a half.” I needed no further explanation.

I loved the sexy little red top I wore, but apparently I forgot whom I was going out with. Alex had me zipped to my chin in a black sweater before I even left the house to meet his two friends from college, Amy and Scott. We took the train into Boston, looking forward to a small “dance party” among friends. Trouble is, we had no idea what these friends of Scott were like.

To tell the truth, if we had known then what we know now, I’m not sure we would have bothered.


It was hilarious. A half a block from South Station we found their apartment – a decrepit death trap on the sixth floor of some ancient, abandoned warehouse. Taking the elevator to their place, we feared for our lives when we realized there were no stairs, no fire escape, and an easy tumble through the gigantic windows overlooking the trashiest part of Southie. I saw my body splattered on the cracked cement below, bumped out by some drunk kid. Trouble is, there were no other kids with whom we could get drunk.

Scott’s two friends, the only people at the party, showed us the apartment. The walls were decorated with “paintings” composed by their “artist” roommate (who lived in some cave-like loft above the main – and only – room in the apartment). These paintings – which the boys swore were for sale and brought in a bit of money – were all of a dinosaur (though we only knew it was a dinosaur after it was explained to us) that looked like it belonged in a book crossed between Shel Silverstein and Kurt Vonnegut. Our kind but grungy guests offered us drinks – poured from a 40oz beer bottle – while stringing up a disco ball to fall from the ceiling at midnight. We had visions of shattered glass.

Having brought our own wine, $40 tequila and Johnnie Walker Black as gifts, we promptly helped ourselves to our own offerings. Except when I went into the community kitchen/bathroom to make ice of the scotch, the water coming out was far from the kind of water I’m used to drinking… in that it wasn’t clear. At all.

(This is us crying for help:)

Long story long, we quickly left.

We found ourselves in the common just in time for the fireworks (beautiful!) and managed to make our way into one of the local pubs for food and beers. After hours of making fun of drunk people on the slow path of becoming some ourselves, we decided it best to return to the party. (This, of course, was after I ran into someone I went to high school with… small town Mendon haunts me everywhere I go!) On the way back we played “Price is Right” guessing how many additional guests would be at the party since our departure. I had the low of 3. I figured it was possible Scott’s friends had goth-like girlfriends and the third “artist” roommate was bond to return at some point. Scott, having more faith in his high school pals, had the high of 8. We were both wrong.


At this late hour, it was a dance party. Except it was a dance party unlike any I’ve ever seen… let alone be a part of. Girls in little black dresses, fishnet tights and hot pink pumps spazzed out on the floor while never-before-heard music blared out of speakers I had previously mistaken for side tables. Awkward men in stiff button-up shirts and silly looking ties attempted the robot. There were drums and video cameras and… well, all I really know is I promptly found my scotch.


We parked our asses on the coach and spent the remainder of the night doing just what we did in the bar – making fun of people while desperately trying to grow intoxicated. When our butts began to hurt and our mission proved unsuccessful, we left.


I spent New Year’s Eve in South Station, eating McDonalds and waiting for the 12:45 train.

We also brought red keg cups and our booze.

Needless to say, it was yet another incredibly fun New Years full of uncanny stories and lots of laughs ~ just a First Night I never could have imagined.