Admit it. On New Year's Eve at midnight, it's you and Dick Clark -- that is if you make it that far. Pathetic, yes?
There was once a time in a galaxy far, far away when New Year's Eve was full of out-loud partying, exploding fireworks, blaring music, and questionable behavior (let's not rehash ancient history about that session of Capture the Flag in the buffalo pen at Golden Gate Park, OK?).
And now you are reduced to awaiting the fall of the glittering ball in Times Square grateful that you are not out in the Big Apple chill with some 20-year-old hurling on your faded, red, high-top Chucks.
Fear not, my friend, it's not too late to reclaim some youthful goofiness.
You could, for instance, fly to Key West where they drop a 6-foot-tall manmade conch shell from the roof of Sloppy Joe's Bar to mark the new year.
You want wilder? At Bourbon Street Pub-New Orleans House complex, a super-sized red high-heel shoe carrying drag queen Sushi will float southward from the second-floor balcony as the odometer clicks over to 2008.
Feeling kind of Rhett Butler? In Atlanta, the 19th annual Peach Drop features an 800-pound piece of fiberglass fruit.
Or perhaps you been dyin' for some sweet chanky chank, mon cher. In New Orleans, a lighted gumbo pot falls from the top of the Jax Brewery.
Where will I be? Why in my adopted hometown of Shamokin, PA, of course, where I'll be nursing a cold Schmidt's after downing a couple of pierogi and a pigeon or two waiting for the lump of anthracite to begin its descent.
Yep, we're gonna party like it's 1999. Cue the band.