I don't get it. To sit around in a tuxedo and plastic lei, a conical hat affixed to your head with an elastic chin strap, washing down fish eggs with carbonated white wine, as some glorified Bar Mitzvah band plays Public Enemy's Don't Believe the Hype, has always seemed to me a pretty lame way to spend the night.
Yet we remain perennially susceptible to New Year's Eve's specious allure, annually convinced that next year's shebang may somehow be different. And when it comes to the pathos of impossible expectations, there's never been anything like this: New Year's Eve Y2K....
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