Happy new year to you and the horse you rode in on. We booted 2005 in the ass but good by renting a penthouse suite in the Hotel Vancouver, the biggest, oldest kitchiest most obnoxiously expensive lodging in town. Turntables were installed. Tunes were spun. Midnight came and went. Noise complaints soon followed. JT, ever the consumate Hollywood sweettalker, kept hotel security at bay while various individuals whose identities and location were never exactly clear complained loudly and at length while we held the volume steady at about six. I know this is a radical view, but it seems to me that if you drop seven or eight hundred bones on a suite - at New Year no less - you should be entitled to make a little noise without management threatening to double charge your gold card. It's not like we trashed the place. Aerosmith did way worse when they were in that suite.
Anyway, we took our decks and we left, petulantly, to continue things in another location. Relaxing, good music, nice people. Things were ingested. Stuff got said. The Girl and I got back to the apartment at about 7. A bunch of folks arrived at our door soon after and we stayed up to chat and see daybreak. I think it was possibly the best New Year I've had in many a year. If there's one thing we all seem to agree on, it's that New Year is traditionally a royal pain in the ass and almost always a universal anticlimax. No one ever commits to anything because of some bizarre, misguided notion that a better option will present itself, which of course it never does. The idea of forgoing the clubs for a private party was a smart move. For once, we were the better option.
I didn't really make any good resolutions except, as you already heard, to write more often, and perhaps to suck less as a DJ. Far, far stranger things have happened, some without any apparent effort on my behalf. We shall see. I welcome you to 2006, and now I am going to sleep.
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