NYE 2007 Part I: Too Many Notes

2007 ended on a very, shall we say, entertaining note. It was a veritable symphony of entertaining notes. If you’ve seen the movie “Amadeus” you may remember the line “too many notes.” It was like that.

The night started off simply enough. It was my first New Year’s Eve when I didn’t either have my son or have to work in a restaurant. I wanted to avoid the boozefests downtown but I definitely wanted to celebrate, so when I was invited to a house party I thought “Perfect”. My good friend and I headed to the way way north side. Almost Evanston north side. The cabbie didn’t know exactly where the address was, but when he realized he went the wrong way he turned off his meter.

We arrived a little after ten to a grown-up get-together. There were tables laden with shrimp cocktail and 7-layer dip and roasted chestnuts and mini-quiches and cherry cordials. A tuxedo shirt-clad bartender mixed cocktails and poured champagne in flutes and martini glasses. The conversations were polite; the music was muted.

Someone broke out Guitar Hero. It didn’t get crazy. There was no head banging and everybody kept their feet off the furniture, although there were ladies in cocktail dresses picking out chords to Guns & Roses.

Midnight came and went with the obligatory televised countdown without any frantic, desperate search for a stranger to kiss. It was all very civilized.

Then we headed to the basement. Dante, the host, was seated in front of a mic with rows of chairs lined up in front of him. I sat in the back of the room while he played a couple of songs. Then he asked where Theresa was. I looked around with everyone else, thinking he couldn’t possibly mean me, there must be another Theresa. “She’s got long curly red hair, somebody go get her.” I raised my hand and stood up a little so he could see me. “This song’s for you,” he said.

(Some lyrics removed. My mom will read this!)

Well, brunettes are fine, man
Blondes are fun
But, when it comes to getting the dirty job done,
I’ll take a red-headed woman, a red-headed woman.
It takes a red-headed woman to get a dirty job done.

Big green eyes that look like, son,
They can see every cheap thing that you ever done.

Well, I don’t know how many girls you dated, man
You ain’t lived ’til you’ve had your tires rotated
By a red-headed woman, a red-headed woman.
It takes a red-headed woman to get a dirty job done.

I concentrated with all of my redheaded stubbornness to keep from blushing, running out the door, or stomping across the room and slugging Dante right in the kisser. Instead I smiled, put my hands on my hips, and said “You and I are going to have words, mister.”

“Don’t blame me. Blame Bruce Springsteen.”

“Uh huh.” After that witty comeback I headed upstairs. I needed a cocktail.

I found my friend, who had been on hold trying to get a taxi and of course missed the entire song. In fact, I only knew two people in the room during the serenade, and one was Dante. At least I know those present will always remember me (which was proven the next day), although I generally prefer to make my mark in other ways.

We had just about given up on getting a cab when a minivan backed up in front of the big picture window. One of the other party-goers had found the taxi a block north and had him back down the one-way street to pick us up. We piled in and told him Division and Dearborn. Yes, we were headed into the nightmarish drunken pit of the Gold Coast on the biggest amateur night of the year.

Stay tuned for Part II


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