20 hours ago
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New Year’s Eve is the only holiday with so much built-in pressure that even those standing under the ball in Times Square are wondering if there’s a better view elsewhere—an evening that, for some, is a social-anxiety cocktail of FOMO mixed with the wish to be in bed by 9 P.M.
Here are the components of an ideal New Year’s Eve party for these conflicted people:
Forty guests, tops, carefully pre-stalked on social media to insure they’re all single; can dance during the Megan Thee Stallion portion of the evening but also introspect during the Sufjan Stevens part; and have healed their inner child enough to not do six shots for attention. One guest can be a wild card—like a blacksmith, or Edward Snowden.
The location must have recently been remodelled—for instance, a warehouse turned restaurant, a cathedral turned bar, or a bar that’s just been turned back into a cathedral. However much remodelling it takes to get far, far away from a millennial, mid-century-modern aesthetic.
Lots of snacks. The vibe is “speakeasy, but with a buffet.”
A d.j. on the brink of blowing up on TikTok but not on Spotify. 2025 is totally going to be their year, but, on December 31, 2024, they’re still underground enough to perform for cheap.
Open bar with fancy cocktails, but served in Solo cups to keep you feeling like part of the humble proletariat.
Music that’s played at a reasonable volume so that people can talk about hot topics such as Eric Adams’s indictment.
No one is allowed to propose—we’re happy for your love, just don’t flaunt it in public.
Private corners to cry in while you process the year.
A chandelier that teeters ominously so you remain ever aware of your mortality.
Dress code is “thriving divorced aunt.”
Ends right at midnight. No need to drag this out any longer than necessary.
Since New Year’s Eve is the only major holiday that doesn’t have a designated menu, let’s assign one: Trader Joe’s apps, including but not limited to samosas, mac and cheese balls, and spanakopita.
Lots of parking nearby, or within one block of a public-transportation stop so that guests can Irish goodbye (rather than South Asian goodbye, which is when you say goodbye and then hang out by the door to talk for another hour).
No fluorescent lighting—that’s for J.F.K.’s Terminal B. But not totally dark, either. This isn’t prom and there isn’t as much acne to hide. The ideal lighting is a soft, warm glow like in the headmaster’s office at a British boarding school.
A white Tesla parked in the center of the room that everyone can throw tomatoes at to productively channel their anger.
A champagne tower, and then next to it a water-glass tower to remind you to hydrate.
All cell phones are locked up. A receptionist will grab you if a really important text comes through, like one announcing a new rom-com starring Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan or from an ex who wants to get back together after realizing what a mistake they made. (The former is a lot more likely to happen.)
A couple of waiters serving comfy slippers on silver platters for when you inevitably get sick of your snazzy shoes.
A dedicated zone for anyone who wants to squeeze in their 2024 New Year’s resolution at the eleventh hour. In it, you can speed-read a novella, get on a treadmill, download Duolingo, eat a salad, Zoom with a therapist, or even apologize to your mom.
No “Cha Cha Slide” or other corny songs allowed. If anyone requests one, they will be kicked out and someone on the waiting list will be Blade helicoptered in.
In case people want to crash at the venue, a bunch of sofa beds will be provided with one cigarette underneath the pillow. Just one. And Tylenol as well.
No streaming of the ball drop. Instead, a projector will play “The Great British Bake Off” the whole time so everyone can de-stress and feel good about themselves.
A photographer will take blurry art-house photos all night that you can post the next day and seem cryptic and interesting. Where were you? Who were you with? Is that a Tesla in the background? ♦
English (US)