
It's New Year's Eve—but you know that, right?—and I'm at Whistler with the family. And some loyal retainers. We were supposed to be in Whitefish, Montana, for the New Year holiday but... well, that's a long story. There's a Led Zeppelin cover band playing on a stage just outside our hotel. ("Aaah-aa-aaaaaaaaaah-ah! Aaah-aa-aaaaaaaaaah-ah") They're very loud. Presumably this band, or the band or bands that follow, will be playing until sometime after midnight. Without a doubt the band or bands that follow will be equally loud or louder. Because it's not really music if it isn't doing lasting structural damage to nearby buildings.
Anyway, we brought something like six bottles of champagne with us. Because it's New Year's Eve, of course, we feel obligated to start downing all this booze. But if we stay up until sometime past midnight (another obligation), and the four adults in our party drink all of this champagne, we will all have hangovers in the morning and that will make it impossible to bound out of bed at 7 AM and go snowboarding. Which is why we're here—the snowboarding, not the drinking. (Speaking of which: five people have died here this season so far—not much snow, a lot of exposed rocks and trees, so many, many ways to bash your brains out.) But New Year's Eve is one of those drinking days of obligation, nights when adults must drink. So drink we must, and drink we shall—and with all the aaah-aa-aaaaaaaaaah-ah-ing, I don't see as I have any other choice.
And now, to quote Monica Guzman, what are your plans for New Year's Eve, Seattle? Besides reading Slog, of course. Are you drinking? Not drinking?
Aaah-aa-aaaaaaaaaah-ah!
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