Sometime before New Year's Eve a year ago I got wise to the idea that if I myself hosted a party, I would not have to a.) make plans to go out, nor b.) actually go out. Everyone hates New Year's Eve. I don't know why--I love it. A secular holiday where you are free to get plastered on champagne and kiss a lot of people on the lips. Now that's a holiday! But even I admit that figuring out exactly where one is supposed to do all this merry-making can be daunting. So it was particularly thrilling last year when I showed a great time to so many skeptics on New Year's Eve. I continued the tradition this year with a fantastic, knock-down, drag-out, all-singing, all-dancing, all spaghetti breakfast blow-out.

The invitation said 10pm, but the first guest arrived at 9:30 (thank you, Seth!). The last guests left a little before 5am (go to bed, Laura!).

Here we have the Berksons, RF, Doug Crouse, and Mr. Bruegman's back--all enjoying themselves thoroughly. Mark's Fox's tornado hangs over Doug--Mark himself was getting hung over in Costa Rica, poor thing.

Ah the lights, the dancing, the handsome men! And the girls--did I mention the cleavage on display? The invitation said to dress nice, and these ladies did not disappoint!

Did I mention Liz Bangs in a strapless black gown? She and Cary won the best-looking couple award two holidays in a row now!

I myself bought many bottles of champagne; Paula, too, provided generously. And then many many more arrived with the guests. In total? Yep, we drank 18 bottles. Andrew shook his like a polaroid picture....

And here we see exactly where all that champagne went, don't we Andrew and Walter?

At midnight, Marijane looked on as I removed my tie and started cookin' spaghetti.

"It's easy: you just follow Marie's recipe, and--voila--gravy!"

The rest of the night was a bit of a blur. We danced. We greeted late-comers. We brooded and got all philosophical. We danced some more. We drank some more. We drank some more. And then we opened more champagne and drank some more.

It's was Lesh's last holiday as a resident of New York. Less than one week later her bags were packed and she was off to her new home in Rotterdam. Bon voyage, Lesh!

Anthony stopped by. And I tried to prevent Evan from dominating all the pictures like he did on Thanksgiving. Don't ask me how the night ended--all I remember is dancing so hard I split my pants, and woke up in bed in my jeans. Another, uh, successful party! Eighteen more pictures here.

New Year's Eve bleeds into New Year's Day in a very rude, very annual way. For the third year in a row I was part of the Alternative Poetry Marathon (a Lower East Side reply to the decidedly mainstream poetry marathon at St. Mark's Church) at the Bowery Poetry Club. Running for 10 hours--2pm to midnight--each poet is given three minutes on the stage. It's fun and fascinating as poets from every walk of life get up there and recite their verse. The first year I did it, I took the stage, leaned into the microphone and said, "Being nervous and being hungover is a terrible combination." Nothing has changed--I still get nervous, and you know I was hung over.

I read two poems this year, which I post here for your reading pleasure. If you want to actually hear me read them, well, give me a call and I will. Alex Katz in a Hurricane / Alone in New York

Happy New Year.