THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, December 31, 1995 TAG: 9512310060
SECTION: LOCAL PAGE: B3 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: PAUL SOUTH
LENGTH: Medium: 52 lines
As I talked with a friend the other day, I found that his mother was spending New Year's Eve at the legendary Rainbow Room.
A stone's throw from New York City's Times Square, where the ball will drop heralding 1996, she and her tuxedoed date will swirl about the floor to the sounds of Dorsey and Miller and James.
Highfalutin' stuff indeed.
But for those of us not so fortunate as to trip the light fantastic in the Big Apple, I have a recipe for a great New Year's Eve:
Stay home.
Now before all the local restaurateurs and club owners jump my case for discouraging business, let me explain.
There are plenty of folks who live to party hearty on Dec. 31. They'll pack the clubs and restaurants. Good for them. Good for the restaurants. And good for the cab drivers.
But there are some folks like me, who when asked whether they'll watch the ball drop, respond: ``There's a ball?''
Frankly, it's hard for some of us to make it to midnight. Try as we might to wait for the witching hour, we usually wind up going to a service at the Box Springs Baptist Church. We're talking Sominex City.
A few years ago, I came to the sobering realization that it's no sin to stay home on New Year's Eve.
I had been invited to a pair of parties. That night, I got into a steaming tub of water, and about 20 minutes later was as relaxed as a bowl of Jell-O. I put on sweat pants and a bathrobe, and took out a recently purchased pint of Ben and Jerry's ice cream (Cherry Garcia, I recall), and one large spoon.
Bowls, who needs 'em?
The previous week I had received a copy of John Grisham's ``A Time To Kill.'' I curled up with the book and the ice cream, and listened to a Harry Connick live performance on the radio. By 10:30 it was lights out.
I missed the magical dropping of the ball - and probably a whole bunch of other things.
But the next morning, as the rest of the world stumbled to try to find the Alka-Seltzer and a place to go and die, I was ready for pork roast, collards and black-eyed peas.
And if I remember right, 1991 was a great year.
I may never make it to the Rainbow Room. But as long as they make Ben and Jerry's ice cream and Harry Connick records, and they don't outlaw nappy bathrobes, staying home is just right.
Happy New Year. by CNB