I probably despise New Year's Eve in NYC precisely because I have such a fondness for consuming alcohol and an affection [waning, thank you maturity!] for bringing in the sunrise. That's the nature of the holiday, but when every tri-state retard, teetotaler and nesting homebody is compelled to clog the streets, hog cabs and fill up every stinking establishment they're pissing in my personal oatmeal. It is amateur hour.
My best memories are of playing it by ear in the college years and immediately afterward. It usually involved us ambivalently drinking in an apartment past midnight, dragging our asses to random house parties and then hitting up our staple EV dive bars like 7B and the Village Idiot. There was a [very] old blues band from Alabama we happened upon one year and proceeded to have a blast sitting with their elderly wives while they were playing. The freezing NYE some heroin-addict-looking chick came into the Idiot and announced that she'd fuck anyone for a jacket. A nutbag who came in to eat at Kiev dragging a large tree branch. You know, the kind of golden memories that annoying $400/couple forced fun New Year's events just can't deliver.
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Among the innocuous things I remember was a smallish group of us slumming at a friend's apartment playing beer pong - the pussy Dartmouth variety as opposed to the much cooler Lehigh "Beirut" - while blasting MTV's live NYE Nirvana concert. I was a total Nirvana fantard, but I've been to so many live shows that I find TV concerts to be pretty much unwatchable. This one, however, was really mesmerizing. That less than six months later Kurt Cobain put the barrel of a shotgun in his piehole probably intensified my memory too. I loved that band like very few others.
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