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10:14:24 - 2000-12-31


Ahhhhhhh...New Years Eve.

Ever since I turned 16, New Year's Eve has gotta rank as one of my favorite holidays.

I mean, c'mon...the holiday is CONSTRUCTED to party your ass off. That's all it is and all it claims to be ... Party Day. Turn that Mutha out. Tear the roof off the sucka. Word Up. Play that funky music, white boy. You've got the right one, baby. Uh huh.

I have had some great NYEs and some bad ones. Here, I'd like to celebrate them with you. The years are fairly accurate...a few I had to guess on but it's within a year or two of what is stated here.

I know you don't give a shit about it. But in case you haven't figured it out by now ... I'm pretty anal about things like that.


Maybe that's why I use the words "ass" and "shit" so much. Maybe I'm anal.

It doesn't mean I like anal sex, I don't think. Because I don't.

Just wondering.


I mean...I had anal sex once.

It was kinda too weird for me to try again.

It wasn't with my wife. The subject's never came up there.


How did this turn into an anal sex confessional in the space of one sentence?


...My New Year's Eve stories...



I've mentioned the little jezebel's name in here before ... TREVA (rhymes with "Beaver" -- almost). This was the year that Treva was breaking MY heart after I had toyed with hers all through 1980.

Anyway ... NYE, 1981. Treva and I had broken up and gotten back together numerous times in the fall of '81 and I was having to spend NYE with my family in New Jersey, while she was down in Nashville, whooping it up with our friends.

Long story short ... I sat in our den near the television with the sound turned down low, so as to not wake anyone and watched the ball fall in Times Square by myself in the dark.

While ... I found out as soon as I got back to school three days later ... Treva was drunk and making out heavily with my best friend.

Folks ... when you're 19 and in love, nothing can beat it.

And when your heart gets broken at 19, you can do nothing but learn from it.

Oh ... and a lot of senseless sobbing into your pillow when nobody's around.

And did I mention whacking off a whole lot more??


Anywhoooo .... Treva is an obese cow living in a trailer in the hills of Kentucky right now with six screaming multi-racial kids running around screaming curse words in everything from arabic to ebonics and setting fire to whatever looks flammable while she rushes around behind them, spraying the curtains with water from a misting bottle that she got when she and I went to Florida in the summer of 1981 .... that WHORE!!!!!

...At least ... that's what I keep telling myself ...



Me and my buddy Rick Hoover go to this bar to try and score. The problem was...neither one of us had our game on at 21 ... I couldn't talk to women. It was physically impossible. I hadn't had a date all year and SOMEHOW, I thought I'd change all that on New Years Eve.

We go to this club, The Brass Ass in Nashville. I think it was called The Brass Ass. It was Brass Something. Anyway...I'm drunk, Rick's drunk and this girl walks up to our table and announces herself as one of my younger sister's friends.

I barely recognize her, but chat away with her.

We talk for ten minutes, and she finally asked me to dance.

I was in heaven. All those years of playing air guitar in front of the mirror were about to pay off.

As we're making our way through the crowd to the dance floor, I trip over my own shoelaces. Apparently my shoe was untied and I stepped on the shoelaces, tried to step with my trapped foot and fell on my face.

Well...I fell on my face on the sharp corner of a table.

With blood now flowing freely from my forehead, and me thinking it's sweat, I get up from the floor, find my way to the dancefloor and my sister's friend and start dancing my fine ass off.

My sister's friend looked at me in horror, as I looked like something out of a Wes Craven flick. My face was covered in blood and I was SOOOO DRUNK that I was acting like I was Gene Simmons from KISS and flapping my bloody tongue at her.

Okay. Flat out...

Why did I not have a single date in 1983?? Anybody???


Some security guys get me off the dancefloor and into the bathroom to clean me up. An ambulance has been called. I distinctly remember everyone trying to keep me from looking in a mirror as it would send me into a state of shock.

I sneaked a peek. It was awesome.

And didn't hurt a bit.

Thank you brother Alcohol.

I got seven stitches that night and have a faint scar starting at my hairline.

I joked the entire time with the staff. I was drunk. I wasn't dead. I was in a great mood.

This pain beat the shit outta Treva pain any day.



Okay ...I was managing a Waffle House and ....











Are you finished giggling?

May I continue??

Anywhoo...I was managing a Waffle House and one of my waitresses, Suzie (NOT the woman I married) had a big crush on me. Suzie was a pretty girl (for a Waffle House waitress in Alabama... I mean c'mon ... the standards weren't that high), but I wasn't attracted to her personality at all. She made no bones about her crush ...sending the other waitresses in to my office to say "Suzie wants you to fire her, so you could start dating then".

Sorry sweetie. No interest.

Anyway ... NYE 1985 ... Suzie throws a New Years Eve party and I'm invited.

I showed up, but I had just broken up with another girl and was kinda depressed.

Suzie wanted to get me "out" of that depression. Actually she wanted to get me "out" of my jeans. I was quite the looker in '85, if I don't mind saying so.

And I obviously don't mind saying so.

For some reason, I resisted her. I guess because there were so many other women at the party who weren't as forward, obnoxious or as pushy as Suzie.

At 11:30, I quietly left the party by myself without saying goodbye to anyone and drove home.

I got home and my parents were throwing a party for all of their friends and our neighbors. I arrived in the driveway at about 11:55 p.m.

So rather than go in to all the revelry and shenanigans and getting tongue raped by my mom's rich friends while their husbands sat and grinned, I sat in the driveway in my new Camaro and listened to a tape that my last girlfriend had gave me and thought of her.

And I quit Waffle House the following week.

The funny thing was ... after that I went to work as a bank teller and a bouncer at a club at night. And Suzie would come out to this club with all these guys and think she was making me jealous when I just wanted to laugh.

I saw her picture in the paper a few years back. She was working at a local Travel Agency and was looking pretty good.

And she had a new last name.

Which made me exhale and smile.



It was a Sunday night.

I was a deejay in the Governor's House hotel here in town. It was a fancy hotel whose bar was really just a convenience for the hotel visitors. The bar didn't do much business at all, and I was brought in at the beginning of December to try and change that.

We had a kick-ass night. I think the bar made $7,000 when it normally made $500 a night.

But down here in my neck of the woods, most bars are closed on Sundays. So while we might have 50 bars in town...only 3 were open that night. The last New Years of the 80s.

So of COURSE we were going to do great business.

The manager of the hotel/bar spent most of the evening up in the deejay booth with me, simply amazed at the wall-to-wall people and the line outside that we had.

I had just come from the most popular bar in town to one of the least most popular bars to try and build it up into a popular place. So I was used to the crowd and was in my element, rather than playing cocktail music for old geezers like I had been doing for the last few weeks.

By midnight, I was shitfaced drunk. But that was part of my job ... as long as I could perform my job, I could get as drunk as the crowd. When the deejay's happy...everybody's happy.

So the manager comes up and tells me he's going to give me the Presidential suite for the evening for a job well done.

Cool with me. Susie was there, we didn't have to drive, and we were staying in the most luxurious hotel room I'll ever stay at again.

The room rented for $500 a night. It was originally built for Whoopi Goldberg earlier in the year when Whoopi stayed at the hotel for several months while shooting a film here.

It was five normal sized suites, with a number of the walls knocked out. So one suite was the bedroom, one was the den, sitting room, etc.

It was huge. It had three full sized bathrooms with everything gold plated.

Beautiful place.

I end up at 3 a.m. in the suite with my wife and a beautiful lingerie model who worked as a waitress in the bar with us.

Uh huh.

The model's sole purpose for being there was because she had a joint and was looking for a place to smoke it.

Since Susie didn't smoke, it was up to me and the model to smoke it all.

Which we did.

Now to Uncle Bob here...

IF you get super duper drunk NOT cap off the night with a joint.


The model left and I stumbled her to the door. Susie went to bed and I had to pee.

Then I had to puke.

And puke.

And puke some more.

And then try to puke out of my eyes.'s amazing that your old Uncle Bob wasn't turned inside out that evening after the regurgitation fest that I threw.

Susie was more pissed at me than she had ever been. The ONE NIGHT that we were ever going to spend in a hotel suite like this, and I spent it on the bathroom floor and made her leave at 8 am the following morning so I could just be home and puke in my own bathroom without having to stare at a lot of gold plated stuff.

That was really foolish.

So anyway...tonight's going to be the three of us. We might watch a movie, have some eggnog. Like Susie said "Hey...MAYBE we'll even get to bed BEFORE midnight!!" which was a slam on Andrew, because he likes to sleep from midnight to 8 a.m.

I think I'll take tonight's New Year's Eve over any of those other ones.

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