Biggest New Year’s bash ever was the last for me

When it comes to New Years Eve, I’m a dud.

My obsession with celebrating the “high life” that surrounds the day ended in my youth at the tender age of 17 in 1991.

Like so many, I bought into the wild, uninhibited throw-down-and-party concept sold to us through so many movies and liquor commercials. That year, a good friend of mine, who was a bit older than me, lived not too far away in Covington. He had a huge three-story downtown home that simply became his for a time after his rich father, who apparently belonged to some sort of wife-of-the-month club, got married and vacated the place abruptly to cavort and frolic in warmer climes with the new, and much younger misses. Naturally, his former house was transformed into party central.

My friend, who was always a bit spoiled and free with his father’s money (an endearing quality) decided to hold a New Year’s Eve party for the ages. I mean a MEGA party! One that would be remembered through the songs of bards and the hushed tones of those who lived through it. Something EPIC, MASSIVE AND STUPENDOUS! It turned out to be a pivotal event in my life.

He rented an enormous sound system through which the rest of town could celebrate with us, whether they liked it or not. There were party favors for everyone. Invitations, the words laced in gold, went out to scores of people. Limo’s were rented to bring certain people to the party. Fireworks were purchased.

A plan was even put in place to where my friend and his girlfriend at the time would descend the central staircase of the home clad in their best formal attire, greeting guests like royalty or something. Trumpets would herald their appearance and signal that the king and queen of this small three-story kingdom had officially decreed the festivities underway.

It was like some modern-day scene from The Great Gatsby – a wild, ribald Roaring 20s affair rushed forward in time to the 1990s. I can only think he was inspired by F. Scott Fitzgerald’s opus to some extent as he made his way through the throng of guests, kissing the hands of ladies, slapping the backs of fellow men and even using the phrase “old sport” on occasion. This was the 25-year-old new money king of 19th Street.

At first, it all came off without a hitch.

After a time, the Covington Police showed up. I guess the sound system was a little too big. And perhaps fireworks weren’t such a good idea. After some animated discussion between a few partygoers and the boys in a blue, a few people were carted off to jail. Mom, if you are reading this, I was not among them.
The police raid dampened the mood a bit, but not overmuch.
The music was turned down to the point that only a city block could share in our revelry, sparing most of metro Covington. The big, exploding fireworks ceased in favor of some spinners and fountains.
As the hours wore on, the sheen and grand nature of this party began to dull, then became ugly.
A fight broke out between some men that had to be quelled. It started over either someone talking about someone else’s sister, or a side argument about who was the best Bengal’s running back, I’m not sure which. In an effort to break up the fracas, my nose was bloodied and I received a nasty bite to the leg. Almost simultaneously, my friend and his girl had a drunken argument that ended in tears, vile oaths of revenge, swearing, a broken window and one slammed door. People, “too long in their cups” as they used to say in the olden days, began to hurl and wretch everywhere. There was nothing festive about it.

By morning, the house was a sea of mostly unconscious humanity spread about like the scene of a mass murder.
As I pressed gauze soaked with rubbing alcohol onto my leg wound, I watched the sun peer through the broken front window. I did not want to be there any longer so I left.

I saw my friend only a few times after that before I left for college. Then we lost touch.

Half a lifetime removed from that night, I can now say I decided firmly then and there that the version of New Year’s Eve I lived through was not for me. Nowadays, I favor watching others celebrate the New Year on TV and the Sci-Fi Channel’s annual Twilight Zone marathon more than anything. I’d rather play a board game with my daughter than a drinking game with my buddies.

When the ball drops and the chorus of Auld Lang Syne rings out, I know where I’ll likely be – in my easy chair, enjoying a diet Pepsi, microwave popcorn listening to Rod Serling warning me to not adjust the picture on my television.