Blow my whistle, baby
or
2007 is the new 1999



I had an awesome week on St. George Island near Apalachicola in the Florida panhandle, and maybe I'll post pictures and tales of sand in the tent tomorrow. (I'm not making promises, people; remember that the Goonies' house photos from Astoria in November have yet to make their internet debut.)



But for now, let us examine how I kicked 2006 to the curb and embraced 2007 as my new, much younger lover.



I spent most of the day of December 31, 2006 riding in the Blue Bomber from St. George to Atlanta. Around Columbus, Georgia I turned my phone on and checked my voicemail for the first time since leaving for the beach. The messages were copious and promising: whereas I had not a single New Year's Eve party to attend when I left Atlanta, by yesterday afternoon I had at least five offers, all of them valid. I was pleased, but a little concerned about the sheer physics of hopping from place to place. Thankfully, I would not be doing my party hopping alone, for my Dear Old Friend Patrick (DOFP) was in town for the weekend and, as all good gay boyfriends should, promised to be my date for the night.



The night started out a little slowly and clunkily, with dinner at La Fonda and then a quick backtrack home to fetch my forgotten cell phone. DOFP and I then made our first stop of the evening at Rachael's slightly hush-hush apartment party. There was some awful energy drink/beer called SPARKS that had me crying for a PBR, dear god, please! There was also a kid I went to high school with and hadn't seen in a good five years, but who I knew hung out with various Rachaelites. It was great talking to him and hearing about who was finally out of the closet (and who should probably go back into the closet and never show their face again), reminiscing about hanging out at each other's houses, and trying to remember just how many people were on that bed (yeah, I've been bad from the start...) He even asked if my dad "still had that old blue van" (aka the aforementioned Blue Bomber). Good times, good times.



Since Rachael didn't have a tv on at her house, we all sort of guessed when midnight occurred by the times on our various cell phones. I didn't kiss anyone or spill champagne down my dress (or scream, "I can name everyone in this motherfucker!"), which officially made NYE 2006/2007 the tamest one yet. DOFP and I then headed for MJQ to partake of the 12:01AM pouring of alcohol (Georgia still has blue laws that don't let "bars"--establishments that don't serve food-- pour on Sunday, so legal pouring couldn't begin until after the first stroke of midnight). We danced, we got hit in the head with blow-up beach toys, I ran into another long-lost classmate in line for the ladies' room, and I had an amusing moment with a very short man and my whistle, which if you ever want to hear about I'll be happy to tell you in person. (It's a story that doesn't work well without the visual element.) Clubbed out, we headed for the After After Party at the house in VA-Highlands that will forever be "Marilyn's House" to me.



The After After Party was the best party of the night, and within seconds of ascending the front steps I saw several faces I hadn't seen since NYE 2005/2006. DOFP even ran into a girl he went to elementary school with, thus cementing our night as "casetheplace & DOFP's Awesome Timewarp Adventure." We partied until about 5AM, when just about everyone I knew hit the wall of tiredness and we all made our yawny ways home.



Stopping my consumption of alcohol early in the evening at 1:45 and drinking nothing but water after that was the secret to my headache-free day today. I was tired, yes, but functioning. DOFP and I did some shopping, had dinner, and chilled.


Tomorrow I go to work and DOFP drives back to Statesboro. And Gerald R. Ford gets buried, and so 2007 begins.

###