Rockin' In

Every NewYear's Eve, for the past seven years or so, I have hung out with my friend, Linda. There was the year we threw things off her 20-something floor balcony and drunk people kept showing up at her place. There was the year it snowed, I cried, someone else left, my boyfriend drank and Linda hid in her room. There was the year my neighbor may have killed someone and we watched movies in the dark. There was the year we were on the phone. The year I got stuck in the driveway and we had, like, ten pounds of shrimp. And the year I slept in my car.

This year was fairly tame. The sparkling winery down the road from her house was closed for New Year's Eve so we didn't get quite as sloshed quite as quickly as we have before. There were just three of us this year, so we didn't need quite as much beer as we have in the past. We had more than enough food and drink and conversation, so the hours passed quickly. Lasagne can do that...make time pass. We looked out onto the lake quite a bit, wondering at the fact that it might get warm again, sometime. We spent a long time answering questions about our lives: What question might we ask God if we had the chance? Where would you most like to live if not the in U.S.? Which is more important, science or art?

Then the television coverage began and the evening quickly degenerated from thoughtful and insightful conversation to name calling and general snarkery. All on my part, of course.

Because, honestly, Taylor Swift is a pretty, pretty girl. And I appreciate the fact that she had to appear on a television show with her possibly gay ex-boyfriend, brother #1 from whoever the hell the band is with all the brothers that isn't Hanson or a television show about WWII. But put on some goddamn clothing! And if you were warmer, you might sing better. Because you sounded bad. And you made me be nice to Katy Perry, which is something I absolutely hate to do, Taylor! I hate it. Because I don't like her or her music or her "maybe I fooled around with a girl but probably not because my preacher-father would kill me and this is all a publicity stunt anyway" attitude. And her clothes suck. But she can sing, Taylor. She sang much better than you! And that made me sad.

What else made me sad? My God, could Carson Daly hate life any more? He stood there like a freakin' block of wood, announcing crap performer after crap perfomer and showed absolutely no expression on his face. Like he's about to be marched onto the trains to the camps. Seriously. And, although everyone else wearing turtlenecks and scarves gets that kind of fat-faced look? Carson still looks like a cadaver.

And Kelly Pickler needs to learn to use consonants. I mean, I grew up in the South and all, but come on. And who wears jewelry over their gloves? And she kept using "right" as some kind of verbal crutch. Like she wanted to be Canadian and say "eh" all the time but couldn't remember what she was supposed to say.

The banter portion of the evening between the afore-mentioned Ryan Seacrest and Mr. Clark of the Rocking Eve can also be eliminated tout-sweet, as they used to say. I appreciate that Dick is still alive and kicking and some people see him as a beacon of hope and accomplishment. But I cannot watch him without being mean and I don't want to be mean to Dick Clark. And were his tuxedo lapels...padded? What was up with that?

And no more pre-taped crap from LA, where they look smart enough to be indoors but we all know they don't have the sense God gave a turkey. And turkeys frequently drown when caught in rainstorms. So there you go.

Also? Shut up, Fergie. Your dress is cute but your diction is poor.

So now I'm looking out over frozen lake on New Year's Day in 2009, wondering if it will ever be warm again and wondering when the powers that be will figure out that live television is awesome and ridiculous and they should either outlaw it or show it all the time. And on this snowy, cold, barren New Year's morning, I'm resolving to be more like the fabulous Mr. Seacrest: if you keep talking and jumping around, maybe no one will notice how dumb you really sound! Smoke and mirrors, baby!