Happy New Year!

Yeah, still.

So. The idea about going to a New Year’s concert--which just happened to be just a few burps away from where I live--was about convenience, a safe kind of no-responsibility-or-worries-kind of excitement, easy accessibility (busses were running free), Carmen Electra and The Killers. You know; The Killers. They sing that song When You Were Young:

You sit there in your heartache
Waiting on some beautiful boy to save you from your old ways
You play forgiveness
Watch it now ... here he comes!

He doesn't look a thing like Jesus
But he talks like a gentleman
Like you imagined when you were young

Oh man, if that song isn’t me all over, I don’t know what is.

The plan of the evening was that we would coat the insides of our stomachs with good food at my place. That’s where the Omaha sirloin steaks (from Grandma) cooked in a Cabernet butter sauce entered the scenario. They turned out so good, as did my potato soup and the spaghetti squash. And there was that opened bottle of Cabernet that had to be consumed, and a merry high to achieve before we ate. Actually, my guests had to catch up with me; I’d been busting my ass all day cleaning the place, preparing, cooking, fussing. You know how it is. It’s such a joy to do for others … but holy cow! by the time five o’clock rolled around, I was ready for a cocktail. And the wine was already open.

Like a good host, I insisted that my guestessess play catch-up when they arrived, which they were more than happy to do, so don’t feel sorry for them, Argentina.

Now my West Hollywood studio may be small, but it’s warrrrmeeely accommodating. Anyone who eyeballs it loves it. I had my candles burning, the golden and red wall sconces, the antique flicker lamp, the miniature wall divider with all of its tea lights ... woo, it was gorgeous. Just imagine the scents of spiced pumpkin, merlot, vanilla and mushrooms with butter and garlic. It was the beginning to a first class New Year’s Eve.

We toasted each other and our dreams yet-to-be, ate our beef and ‘shroons, then tried to apply eyeliner with unsteady hands. Yes, we laughed ourselves into sore stomachs. This is what part of what New Year's Eve is about--enjoying the friends you've made. During all of this, we left my front door open because my studio got hot—a stove heats up a place, but so can the wine in your blood. Meanwhile, a blond girl who lives on the second floor wandered down. She wanted to see if the guy down the hall was home. He wasn’t, so we invited her in for a glass of wine.

“Is the guy you’re looking for the unfortunate guy with the female football-loving howling cavalcade?” I wanted to know.

She did a double take and shook her head at me. “I don’t think so.”

“That’s too bad,” I told her. “I could use your services to make them go howl somewhere else. Like Zimbabwe.”

The howling cavalcade had howled for over four hours that Saturday I got home four months or so ago, when I was hung over and feeling like hell. I took a shower, stuffed my ears with the orange dick-shaped plugs I bought from the drugstore, then turned on my sound machine. And I could still hear them howling like fucking maniacs. They’ll give up soon, I told myself. They have to; their throats will be raw if they don’t. When I presented myself at their doorstep hours later, they told me I was being unreasonable and called me a bitch.

I love teenagers.

I love apartment living.

And inconsideration tops my list.

So my blond neighbor didn’t know the howler. She had her own problems: an ex-boyfriend with a mechanical heart. How I and my guests got roped into listening to her woes over the next 45 minutes is beyond me, but I blame the Cabernet, the sun, moon and stars.

And then it was almost past time for us to catch the bus heading for the Paramount Studios. We burst out of the apartment like hell was hot on our heels, arrived at the bus stop in time to catch it … and then watched it cruise by with our mouths gaped. What the?

Well, there was no way A could make it to the other end of Melrose in killer heels since she was used to wearing Doc Martins and slippers. Drastic measures were needed. And even though we’d been calling for a taxi all night long (with no results), I – in my I am Superwoman inebriated state – stepped out into the roadway almost in front of an oncoming taxi. And it stopped. Huh. Whaddaya know? The taxi was empty and I looked hot that night. We’re convinced that that’s why we got to the Studio and the concert in time.

Thoughts of the concert and the concert-goers yet to come ...