For years, I’d heard that Philadelphia was the place to be for New Year’s, and with the arrogance of a proper New Yorker upon hearing anything is good somewhere else, I thought, yes, I’m sure it’s lovely, dear. We have plenty of opportunities to vomit in public right here at home. As for some kind of wild parade on the first day of the year, well, it’s my personal tradition to spend that whole day wishing I were dead and trying to remember where I left my underwear.

Trixie and Farrell tried to get me on board the mothership last year, and it couldn’t be done, but this time I decided to beam up. I still feel like I’ve just gotten back from somewhere with a lot less gravity. But maybe the problem is just that New York has too much of it. Fun is harder here.

Philadelphians, I have learned, stone-cold don’t give a shit. Instead of a time for cranking back together the creaky old engine of life after a hard, long night out, New Year’s Day is when the party really starts. Around one pm, I was just becoming conscious enough to wonder if I wished I were dead and if I had underwear on when the street started to get seriously rowdy three floors below. I came downstairs to find the house full of folks slurping Bloody Marys and heading out for the Mummers Parade. You’re about to walk outside with a drink in your hand? Classic New York downer. Philly doesn’t even have real police today.

The Mummers Parade isn’t like the clean, art-directed events I’m used to, with pretty girls and politicians waving from a float sponsored by a bank. And it’s not the frantic mania of Mardi Gras, either. It’s a lot of people in Day-Glo hats drinking and yelling, overtired kids honking vuvuzelas and mummifying each other with Silly String, and guys who have the mien of union workers thumping somberly down the street wearing Strawberry Shortcake and furry outfits. There were definitely some people in white body stockings that I would not have guessed would relish the opportunity to wear white body stockings. Mostly there is a lot of drinking in the street and yelling, and no one is in a big hurry to get downtown.

Wikipedia offers this gem: “Henry Muhlenberg, writing in 1839, reported, ‘Men met on the roads in Tinicum and Kingsessing, who were disguised as clowns, shouting at the top of their voices and shooting guns.'” Hank was apparently, like me, very hung over when he experienced the event.

The strippers at the bar across the street didn’t disappoint that night, either. My previous experiences with strippers have led me to believe it’s just one of those things I don’t really get. It’s like theater for one, in which the play is a prank whose punchline is that you are not actually attractive to the actor. In the past, I tend to just put a dollar somewhere and hope the whole thing blows over quickly. But these Philly girls know how to do it. My favorite was the young lady in the middle with giant furry legwarmers and a thong wielding a plastic lightsaber in a way that didn’t need to be any more suggestive than it was. She seemed to be experiencing joy in what she did, and I can take great pleasure in that.

I guess that’s part of the thing I felt about the difference between partying in Philly and partying in New York. In New York, we go out to be seen, or watch other people who want to be seen, giving out and receiving attention in pharmaceutical doses. There seems to be little pleasure for its own sake sometimes, and especially on New Year’s Eve. In New York, we get fucked up because life is stressful and anxious, and it’s impossible to get the kind of love we want. In Philly, they party because it’s fucking New Year’s.

Thanks to all of you who made me feel so welcome.