In last year’s New Year’s Eve post, I hopscotched through time and imagined what I’d tell my loved ones (and myself) if we were granted New Year’s do-overs. There’s undoubtedly newer, more relevant advice that I’d richly benefit from right now, but it’s only with hindsight that I’ll know what the hell it was, I wrote. This year’s hindsight is a pain so sharp that it’s hard to imagine time could ever dull it, and there’s so much I want to tell Joe that I wouldn’t know where to start. But the advice I’d give him is just one word: “Don’t.”
Spending today without him is something I’ve dreaded for the last couple months. There were no big surprises, it went as expected, and I’m glad it’s nearly over. Crankenstein’s been sick since yesterday so we stayed home with Muriel tonight. This is our 11th New Year’s Eve together and on each of the previous 10 occasions she fell asleep before midnight, a streak that will probably continue.
To avoid falling into a black hole of misery, I’ll throw myself a (figurative) dance party that will start and end with Robyn. Maybe I’ll hit ‘shuffle’ on an old playlist consisting of nothing but 24 versions of “Dancing on My Own,” most from live performances. This Late Show appearance is my favorite of all, for its dweeby denouement and Letterman’s woozy offscreen “There you go. Robyn!” as he advances to shake her hand.
When it’s time for “Call Your Girlfriend,” I’ll watch the music video and admire her willingness to look silly and the liberating effect it has on her dancing. There will also be some Laura Branigan (“Self Control,” naturally); an extended mix of my favorite track from Karen Carpenter’s ‘lost’ disco album; Dinosaur’s “Kiss Me Again,” which is Arthur Russell’s greatest masterpiece and one of the first songs I’d select if asked to curate a playlist that also serves as an autobiography; and more.
This party of one will end the way it started, with an encore of “Dancing on My Own” as I clamber into bed — a slower, sadder rendition made all the more poignant by the original’s infectious ebullience. With that I bid you a Happy New Year. We still have some Auntie V ground to cover in 2025, which is intended as a promise but could understandably be interpreted as a threat.