| We went to NYC. Times square. As close as we could get. It was tremendous. A classless party. No limos around. No celebs. The party was great. I'm starting a new tradition- Times Square. That IS the place to be.
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| Chicago. Curled up on the carpet of my parlour with my husband, surrounded by our menagerie of animals. Watching Rudolph's Shiny New Year, and then the countdowns around the world. We missed the big NYC ball drop....we got, um...sidetracked. But when midnight rolled around in our city, we toasted with a really decent bottle of vintage champagne, and some truffles, and toasted the possibilities of a new year. |
| my husband and kids had to keepwaking meup. I looked forward to this for so long.... but now I own my own business -or it owns me I work too much to have much energy for anything else. I miss being fun. walkingfish |
| I had a strong premonition that the big rollover was going to be an omen. An omen of how the rest of my life would turn out; how I would face the larger events. I wanted to do something grande—be in a club or bar or rave and shout the countdown with drunken comrades, usher in the new millenium with hooliganish ecstasy. Instead my friends dropped out on me to watch ABC’s coverage of the ball dropping. I ended up at a friend’s house watching movies and having assorted shots of alcohol. As they began counting down, however, I realized how I could not damn myself to a future of watching other people have fun on television. I couldn’t understand how watching a massive celebration on television is better than being in that same massive celebration. Real time. I left, out the front door at the stroke of midnight and began walking home, from Anaheim to Whittier. That's really far if you don't know. Both Disneyland and Knotts Berry Farm are in Anaheim so as I walked the fireworks from their celebrations lit up the night sky. I passed a church where they were singing religious songs with rambunctious fervor. I passed a goat farm, probably the only goat farm in Anaheim, CA. My brother picked me up in Fullerton and took me home. At least I wasn’t watching tv… David Seruyange {sophtwarez@hotmail.com} |
Damn. |
| Even though nothing happened and we were overstaffed, it felt like Election Night, which is one of my favorite nights to be at work. People running around, yelling into phones, Annette screaming over 1A -- I almost feel like I'm at a real newspaper. Around midnight, everyone stood up, did a countdown with the TV, and drank sparkling cider. I don't think anyone kissed or even hugged -- we're not that close. Then it was back to work. A story was due to land on my desk in 10 minutes, and I'd have to blaze through it in 15 before passing it on to the slot. (I would clumsily insert an error into the story, becoming out paper's first correction of the millennium.) Later, the biz pod gathered outside for champagne. I smoked my annual cigar, a copy of the one I had sent to Big Ben for Christmas. Then I set to writing resolutions -- "More wine than beer," "Write grandma more" -- which I would seal in an envelope with the cigar butt. These are less resolutions, of course, than wishes. "Resolution" implies resolving to do something. I merely wish I watched less TV; I merely wish I exercised more. This would bear out the next morning, when I opened the envelope from last year: 3 for 22. I'll never get to the Show batting like that. |
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{ 12.31.99 - posting to this story has been suspended because it's 2001 }
