UPDATE: Pitchers.
Instead of getting all gussied up and crowding ourselves into a bar or a random house party, Wendy, Michael and I opted for a quiet New Year’s campfire on the beach. Definitely the best New Year’s Eve I’ve had*—mad props to Wendy for the idea.
Because of the raging wildfires up north, there’s been a statewide burn ban (including aerial fireworks) in effect for a while now…but not on the beach! Have I mentioned that I love living in southeast Texas? Campfires on the beach for New Year’s! It’s the first of January, and at this moment it’s SEVENTY-NINE DEGREES outside. I think the low last night was somewhere in the fifties.
There were several other fires along the beach, but not so many that it felt crowded. We were having a grand old time—roasting hot dogs, making weenie jokes**, drinking mudslides, getting marshmallow all over ourselves—until about ten to midnight, when two carloads of “gangstas” parked maybe a hundred feet from us and cranked up their hip-hop music. They tried to shoot off a few fireworks, but the first one they lit tipped over and came screaming across the ground DIRECTLY AT US. It zoomed over our campfire at ground level and, though I’m not sure exactly what happened in the half second after that, as I was under my blanket covering my head, it landed on the tarp we were sitting on right between me and Wendy, about a foot from each of us. I’m guessing, since both my eardrums are still intact, that it didn’t explode. Still, fucking scary.
So there was yelling. I’m not a yeller, so I just sat and muttered obscenities in their general direction. The guy who shot the errant missile was all, “Hey man, it was an accident.” Oh, okay. Gosh, I’m so glad you didn’t “accidentally” blind me—how lucky am I? Maybe next time you could either (1) know what the fuck you’re doing before you start lighting any fuses or (2) park far enough away that you can’t blow off anyone’s damn face but your own. There was plenty of empty beach out there. Bastards.
Luckily they only had a few fireworks with them, so we only had to sit and grumble (and watch their “camp” closely every time we saw sparks) for about half an hour. True, it was the half hour around midnight, but when you’re out on the beach anyway, there’s nothing special about midnight—it’s not like you’re going to miss anything.
When the fire eventually died down, we packed up and went home, and damn, was it ever foggy. Everything was literally dripping with humidity. It was a small price to pay for the otherwise perfect weather, though. No rain, not too much wind, great temperature. Also, my clothes, my hair, Michael’s car—everything that went to the beach—now reeks of smoke. But at least it’s a warm, woody smoke smell, nothing like that nasty bar-smoke stink.
Oh, fun story! When I got back to my apartment this morning, I parked in the garage, opened the car door, and stepped, with my bare foot (my shoes were still sandy) into a puddle of vomit. Thanks, random drunk person. A promising start to the new year.
Alrighty, I’m off to shower the smoke out of my hair, then clean clean clean my apartment. The holidays have made a royal mess of it, and there’s no need to start the new semester living in a pigsty. So goodbye, 2005, you’ve been good to me, and welcome, 2006! Come on in—oops, don’t forget to wipe your feet—have a seat, make yourself comfortable. Can I get you something to drink?
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* Although this was indeed a lovely evening, this distinction in and of itself isn’t much. I’ve spent 20 of my 22 New Year’s Eves at home with my family, which is nice, of course, but not campfire-on-the-beach nice. The only other exception was in 2000, when I went with my family to Tempe, Arizona, to watch Tennessee play in the Fiesta Bowl. We went to the big block party there, but it was kind of a bust, so we left early after the Times Square ball drop and went to bed before midnight.
** Here, hold my weenie a sec. Get your weenie outta my face. My weenie is burning. Why is your weenie all blistery? etc. This was our whole conversation for a good twenty minutes. Seventh grade humor: timeless.
