 Sometimes I think that New Year's Eve should be abolished.
You know all the reasons to hate that night so let's not dwell on it: too many expectations, too many drunks, too much money!
The thing is, no matter what you do, you wonder if you should have done something else. If you go all out and attend a fancy do, you think you should have just stayed home and watched the ball drop on TV. Hey, it's made of Waterford crystal and cost 2 million dollars. You could have saved even more by not going out.
But if you do stay home, even if you break out the champagne and caviar (or tuna salad), you feel like a, well . . stay-at-home. Somehow it seems that the exact moment when one year turns into another should be marked by something more momentous than watching television in your jammies.
Then there was the year 1999 when one century turned into another — more incredibly — one millennium into another. In our lifetime! Man, you couldn't sit that one out. Millions piled into Times Square, although I wouldn't recommend doing, that having done it once (and never again) in my wild youth. But we got close. A group of us went to a party at the Algonquin Hotel on West 44th Street. By standing just outside the front door we were able to see all the madness of Times Square without actually having to step into it.
West 44th street was closed off to anyone who didn't have a special pass. (Yes, Virginia, you did need those stinkin' passes.) But at the end of the evening when they opened the street to the masses of merrymakers, my friend John and I went out to wish one and all a Happy New Year. So civilized. As John pointed out, we were the "swells" that night, emerging from the Algonquin in all our finery, which is pretty funny considering that we both started out far short of the Social Register, across the river in Brooklyn, if you must know.
But that evening was pretty swell — we were even invited to a private party at a townhouse where the great cabaret singer KT Sullivan performed for us personally.
And then there was Venice . . .
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 It's Christmas Eve and we need a heartwarming story.
Although I write a humor blog these days and live in New York City, I once was an elementary school teacher in a rural area. This is one of my best memories from those days. It's not funny or irreverent, as these posts tend to be, but maybe it helps explain why I'm Not Bitter . .
Sometimes you actually do something good, something that changes things.
My first year as a teacher (I only lasted two years, but that's another story), I had a kid in my fourth grade class named Jimmy. One of the first things that Jimmy told me was that he was "dumb." That startled me a bit, and when I questioned him, he elaborated: everyone knew he was dumb, he had always been dumb, and he had even been left back in the third grade. Very Forrest Gump.
And yet. Something about this kid got under my skin. First of all, I knew — just knew — that he wasn't unintelligent. (I discourage the use of the word "dumb" in any event, boys and girls). I didn't care what the IQ test indicated, or what anybody else said, or how many grades he had repeated.
For one thing, he had asked me a question — the question, actually — the question that has no answer. Which is: If God made everything, who made God? I told him that he should talk to someone at his church, but come on, a kid who's "dumb" doesn't ask something like that in the first place.
There were other signs, too, but I had 37 other kids in the class (really!) and didn't have time to figure out what was wrong.
Until one day, a chain of events was set off that would explain it all . . .
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 I know you're out there, Willard, I can hear you blowing out candles.
Willard Scott is the guy on The Today Show who's become a minor celebrity by showcasing people who are celebrating their 100-year birthdays.
And believe it or not, there are 100,000 folks in the US alone who have reached that ripe old age. But personally, I don't think that this number will grow. In fact, I predict it will decline. The people who are now turning 100 didn't have the pressures we have these days.
Yeah, sure, they had world wars, flu epidemics, the Great Depression.
But we have telephone trees, multi-tasking (I don't even want to single task), and the heartbreak of trying to get a simple thing done: Like getting Willard Scott to mention your parents anniversary. FYI he's now also featuring couples celebrating marriages of 75 years.
 Which is how long these two cute people in the photo have been married for. Seventy-five. Years. Really.
For some of us, seven years — or even five — would be a record. But seventy-five? Isn't that impressive enough for Willard Scott to get excited about?
Apparently not.
After many. many attempts to get through to a human person, making a total pest of myself, and even trying to impress them with my credentials and those of any relative living or dead who has accomplished absolutely anything at all in the past few centuries, all I managed to get was the assurance that Willard himself sends letters of congratulations to everyone who calls in.
Of course, I didn't believe them, and when the anniversary date came and went with no letter, I started thinking about going into revenge mode . . .
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 It's December 7 as I post this, but I can safely say that whenever you read it, I'm still not ready.
Wasn't it just summer when I was worrying about buying a bathing suit?
Wasn't it just Halloween and I was passing out packets of
hyperactivity-producing goodies to cute little gremlins who seemed
shocked when asked whether they wanted a trick or a treat? And then
there was that Halloween party at the National Arts Club. (Hate Fall, Love Halloween ) Maybe
having too much fun can actually alter your sense of time, make it fly or something.
But come on, aren't we pushing this holiday thing earlier every year?
I got announcements for the Christmas Show at Radio City in May. The Holiday Fund in my building is already closed. The tree-lighting ceremony at Rockefeller Center is over. We're still eating turkey sandwiches — but quick! Throw out the pumpkins and get out the poinsettias. Before they're sold out!
Too bad I can't just decorate my apartment with all those colorful catalogs that clutter my mailbox, most of them from stores I will never, ever order from, in this or any other season. Hello! I'm five foot two and a female: stop sending me stuff from Big and Tall Men's Sportswear.
What really gets to me is the "Last Minute Shopping Suggestions" that I got — in October. Last minute! These people don't know from last minute . . .
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 Let's talk turkey.
It's the Monday after Thanksgiving, and we have survived. We do feel fat, let down, and guilty that we ate so much and have done so little to get ready for Christmas, which is Coming Soon to a life near ours. So what should we do to cheer ourselves up? Maybe a fun Broadway play?
H'mm, there's Finian's Rainbow (weirdly wonderful) or The Royal Family (dysfunctional, sure, but in a good way). Or we could see a real turkey, the revival of Bye, Bye Birdie at the Arthur Miller Theatre.
Ouch.
Pat, you always write reviews about plays you like! What's happened? What has John Stamos ever done to you? Well, nothing, but maybe if he had . . .
Hey, there's a first time for everything, and this is my first negative play review.
Sorry, folks, but the show deserves it, and while I hate to be The Grinch Who Panned Birdie, you need to be warned. For starters, There is no — absolutely no — chemistry between the two main characters, Albert (Stamos) and Rose, his voluptuous, marriage minded secretary, played by Gina Gershon.
Separately they're knockouts, but in Bye Bye Birdie, they just don't look good together. Stamos is slight — good looking as all hell, but not big -— so with Gerson in big skirts and really big hair, it feels like one of those cartoons where one character is purposely drawn bigger than the other: Think Natasha and Boris in The Adventures of Rocky and Bullwinkle. . . .
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