Life was much simpler back in the late 90s when I first moved to Northern Virginia. New Year’s Eve celebrations consisted mainly of hanging out and drinking in somebody’s basement. There was no exorbitant cover charge, dress code, or anything like that… just people having a good time.
On the past three or four NYEs, grand plans were made, throngs coordinated, tickets for admission were purchased, and uncomfortable shoes and clothes were worn. With an evening which requires a confluence of so many different variables to be considered a “success”, it takes only one thing going wrong to drop the whole night and its memories in the shitter. So-and-so got drunk way too early and required babysitting, I was being an asshole, she was being a bitch… whatever, you get the idea.
This year, the target was low-key, little effort, low expectations, and we pulled it off in grand fashion. Erin & I headed over to the local, dive poolhall of choice, met up with a couple of friends, had beers, played darts, and even scored free shots from the bar’s notoriously cheap owners when the ball dropped. It was such a fun time; by the end of the night, I found myself grossly overtipping the cab driver for the three-mile trip back to Erin’s place… and pretty damned happy to do it, too.
It was the best New Year’s Eve in recent history, without a doubt. And, I’ve got the photos to prove it.