Trust the new year to bring new dramas. I haven't been updating lately because I've been tossed on a tumultuous sea of good business, bad business, Xmas trip home, late hours at work, late hours at play, a cold, recovery, another cold, new love, winter fires, jazz songs, poetry binges, the smell of pine, the taste of cookies, the warmth of cashmere, the sight of old movies, the taste of gin, new white soul singers--ah winter, I love you so.

My annual New Year's Party is the best in New York. Forget about that crystal ball dropping uptown--the real deal is being poured by the magnum right here on St. Mark's Place. After all, I am spaghetti and meatballs. My parties are always a group effort, and this year the specialest thanks go to Rebecca Foster for providing the best invitation yet. Designed, printed, and delivered with love all by one amazing woman--check it out:

Also contributing were the usual suspects--love and thanks to Miss Curtz for getting the dessert, to Miss Howell for showing up a day early with the motherlode of Mother's Milk, to Mr. Clouse who stocked the bar with gin, vodka, wine, and champagne! And never let it be said that today's youth contribute nothing to our society--young Miss Zaza and her girls helped me wash the dusty champagne flutes and decorate the living room. And Mr. Boisset-Fray brought over everyone's favorite peanuts.

Half of these pictures were taken by the wonderful Christopher Santos. Thanks, Chris. Click all pix for larger...

The evening started slowly. Paula arrived first--God bless America. Just as we took our first sips of Manhattan, Carter arrived. The three of us enjoyed a nice long time together alone, a perfect calm before the storm. And then a little before 11pm--boom--the deluge. Everyone seemed to arrive at once. I had a feeling that this year's party would be a much smaller affair than past years. Uh, wrong again, David. It was huge. I didn't do a head count, but I'm thinking that between the invited guests, the friends of guests, the friends of friends of guests, and the occasional crasher (just kidding Eugene!), I had about 60-65 people. Keep in mind this is a small one-bedroom apartment with a Christmas tree and a stove on legs. It was a tight fit--just the way I like it.

We drank cocktails until 10 seconds before midnight, when...well, you know, a few corks were popped. We didn't hit last year's mark of 18 bottles of bubbly, but 15 this year ain't nothing to sneeze at. We drank more hard liquor this year, which led to a more seriously raucous dance party than in previous years.

But 12:30am brings me to the stove--boiling new water in my big new pot. Were we hungry this year? Um, 4 pounds of sausage, 70 meatballs, and 5 pounds of spaghetti say yes we were.

At 2:30 or so began the Phase of Crying Ladies™. Miss Zaza waltzed (read: stumbled) in with her girls in tow, bubbles busted by their first NYC NYE. Thrown drinks, lost wallets, vomitous cab rides, and a bit of rain led to a downpour of crying in my meatballs. Then Ali showed up, also in tears, crying on RF's shoulder about her first lovers' quarrel of the year. It was maybe a bummer for all these teary ladies, but for the rest of us it was a riot. This was followed by the arrival of the ballet boys--a youth parade demanding another pound of spaghetti.

Then the dancing really kicked in. Claire was found sleeping in the coats. Paula was lost into the night without a goodbye--though her fur stayed behind to entertain us. Someone fell into the tub and ripped the soap dish from the wall. I am happy to report no bodily injuries.

Claire in the coats

I've got to tell you about the two surprise Christophers. The first, Mr. Santos, arrived quite unexpectedly, living as he does in San Francisco. Before Xmas I begged him to change his December 29th flight home so he could attend--I mean, every year, he's the second best thing in my kitchen (after the meatballs!). He said he'd think about it, but you know, when people say that you think, yeah yeah I know it's expensive and you have plans and and and.... Then when none of us heard from him by the 30th, we knew for sure he'd flown back to The Wrong Coast. Then the doorbell rang and there he was on my stairs with a bottle of champagne! WOW WOW WOW!

The second surprise Christopher, Mr. Peterson, is a newcomer to the Zazaura scene. A fella from the neighborhood, he was supposed to be my date for the night, but illness had overtaken him and it was clear that he'd be coughing up a lung in front of a Duraflame fire in his own abode instead of eating meatballs in mine. Wrong again, Zaza! The miracle of modern antibiotics brought not only Christopher to us, but his friend Tonya too. And if you want to be my date for future New Years, let me tell you, you've got some mighty large shoes to fill. Not only did he himself show up, but he brought me the most beautiful flowers anyone has laid on this doorstep. And not only did he bring flowers, but he baked me cookies (you all know how I feel about the word cookie). And not only were they home-baked cookies, but they were cut-outs! Of the letter Z! And, um, they were iced pink. No kidding. So as far as I'm concerned, no New Year's date is gonna match this. And on top of it all, despite a supposed shyness, Christopher got on with everyone quite nicely and cut a rug with me at 3.30am. God bless those antibiotics!

New Year's Day was lovely. I woke up early (11am) and sifted through the mess. Dead meatballs, broken glass, and bowls of uneaten nuts. Organize the mess I did, clean it I did not. Cleaning was saved for the following days, 'cause by the time I stopped moving in slow motion it was time to shower and head to Laura's for cheese cheese cheese. Hello, My Name Is Pierre Robert. It was me, Miss Howell, Paula, Christopher, and a lovely couple called Stephanie and Mark. We ate and drank--Laura's become quite the mixologist of late--and enjoyed the company of cheeses. Then sooner than you can say "I'll have another Manhattan, please" it was time to head to the Bowery Poetry Club for the annual poetry marathon I read in. This year it was called Codex Solaris.

Codex Solaris logo by Bob Heman

Each reader gets three minutes. I was going to fill up my time with two poems, but in the moment decided that a single poem would sound better, and since the evening was running behind schedule those following me would get up there that much quicker. I read this one:

Depth of Field

I did nothing so long
I eventually disappeared.
The perfect camouflage,
rubbed away as slowly
as the softest gold leaf.

I rubbed my fat belly
down to a nub, erasing
from the world the sickly
sight of someone numbering
his days down to none.

Everything within me died.
Fading into nude transparency,
I could not even see my
own hands peel the skins
away from the heart.

Now I wear invisible
stripes behind invisible
bars, cutting my cold hands
on the shredded metal
of those iron curtain days.

The best thing about New Year's Day was that it was on a Sunday, so Monday was a holiday too. I got a late start to the day after sleeping like a baby for many long hours. Christopher and I attempted to see King Kong but the crowds were unreal, so we hoofed over to the IFC Center to see Pickpocket instead, which was wonderful. It was my first time at the IFC Center and everyone had been telling me they've got the best projection in the city. Everyone was right. It was a perfect movie experience. And the perfect beginning to a new year.

More pictures, more drama, more everything in the Photos section.

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