New Year's Eve is often called the biggest amateur night of the year by those hardened, longtime partiers who roundhouse-kick Friday into Saturday just as hard as they rage 2011 into 2012. At one time I was among those pros, carrying a thick layer of 3 a.m.-burrito pudge in my midsection. Nowadays, my inner Andrew W.K. has quieted, but I still can't help but call out “We want fun!” when it comes to New Year's Eve.
After carbo- (and cocktail-) loading at Riviera Supper Club, my nine-person party posse headed to North Park to shake off our steaks and mac 'n' cheese at U-31, where local party god Saul Q was spinning new-wave music. Sadly, none of us made it in due to the biggest asshole in the world deciding to play doorman Nazi. How do you go from saying there's no guest list to producing a guest list that has my name typed cleanly in Times New Roman but not my photographer's, then yelling at me about arguing? To quote Stephanie Tanner, How rude!
So, what's a girl who's dressed to kill and has close to a negative balance in her checking account to do on this holy night of partying with only 45 minutes to go until midnight? The answer was simple: Gay dive bar.
Off we headed to Redwing. (No cover and cheap stiff drinks? That'll do.) We were greeted by drunks singing karaoke, a jam-packed bar of revelers, fishbowls full of condoms at the bar and man's greatest invention: Drag queens.
The clock hit midnight and everyone kissed, blew party horns and kept drinking. Within 20 minutes, one dude fell straight over and had to be carried out. Let me tell you: If you want to see people totally trashed, don't go to an SDSU kegger. Go to a gay bar. Here's to more fun in 2012.