New Year's Day

There is no more pointless celebration than New Year's Day. Sure, I dig it, an excuse to get stupid drunk and behave badly. Right on. But, as I move deeper into adulthood, kicking and screaming mind you, I have an 8 year old kid that asks questions. And she asks hard questions.

Luckily for me, the New Year's question wasn't "Why does beer make you talk funny and act weird", which would have been an obvious question after last night's shenanigans. But it was "Why do we celebrate New Year's Day? What's the point?" Ah yes, what is the point.

I guess this year, we celebrate the fact that 2004 was such a shitty year that 2005 can't be worse. The Bush victory and the tsunami disaster alone qualify 2004 as a rotten year. Not to mention the horrific nightmare that our professional and part-time troops experienced in Iraq all year.

I couldn't say that to an 8 year-old, I can't crap on her innocent view of the world with cynicism and bile. The lame dad explanation is that we mark time in days, months and years, and the year is the biggest, most significant unit. When the year ends, we celebrate all that was good in the past year, but more importantly, we look forward to the promise of the new year.

Total bullshit. I celebrate the fact that I survived the prior year, and the neighbors have lots of booze and Indian food, and I have a cache of fireworks that I'm going to expend as soon as the ball drops and the Happy New Year niceties end.

Unfortunately, the cops were on the ball this year, and within minutes of the first explosion, there were two patrol cars, with searchlights, blazing down my quiet suburban street, tearing ass toward me. I was in the process of igniting a multiple bottle rocket scream launch, which ended just as the cops pulled up. My first inclination was to run, but since my fireworks audience was mainly kids between the ages of 6 and 12, I figured that would be a bad example to set. So, I had to get lectured by a couple of 20 something cops about the dangers of fireworks, especially around kids, and also please pour your beer out, you asshole.

No charges were filed, they didn't even ask who I was, so I think I'm OK. Except the parents at the party probably think I'm an ass. Screw 'em, have some more beer, and what's this, champagne? Mmmmm. The crowd has dwindled, there are only a few of us now, and I try to follow the conversation, but it's too hard, and the chair I'm sitting in is way too comfortable for just sitting, so I fall asleep. My wife heads home, across the street, without waking me up, and our hosts go to bed, also without waking me up. I wake up confused and horrified in the middle of the night, and curse 2005, and cheap champagne.