There's nothing more dreadful than the thought of "going out" for New Year's Eve. I watch the bovine masses in Times Square; to mix metaphors, those folks bray, proudly, about how they've peed in a jar for the past thirteen hours, over and over, just to have a shot at a close-up view of Anderson Cooper. Few things make me feel more like an alien than the act of scrutinizing those joyous crowds. The thought of all those humans--bossy, loud, aggressive. The unwanted physical contact. The standing. The visual dullness: ugly, garish Times Square, beating down on you, hour after hour after hour. The enforced cheeriness. The pressure to feel that this next year will be *so different* from all the ones that have come before it. The crazy desire to reform all of one's bad behaviors. The grating sound of cheap plastic "noisemakers." One gift New York City gave me was the possibility of an alternative New Year's Eve. I hadn't known there was anot...