As you scramble to formulate a last-minute plan for tomorrow night that doesn’t involve spending lots of money, depending on a cab or car service, bouncing around aimlessly, or simply staying in, why not try this simple rule: Go do the least cool, weirdest, dumbest, most outrageous and possibly frightening thing available. Who cares about friends and boy-/girlfriends—you can see and kiss them at midnight any day. But an invite in Las Vegas to act like some trashy hooker onstage with Kid Rock as he sniffles through a DJ set at the beginning of his divorce with Pamela Anderson, while she parties at a “cooler” club across the street? Would you seriously pass up such a heinous opportunity? I didn’t, and I don’t regret a thing, especially not the thousand-dollar magnum of champagne I had ordered to his table.

The year before that a distant acquaintance bragged that she was going to be part of a very famous R&B singer’s pussy posse, aka a wagonload of young sluts that was being shipped off to hang out with him and his friends in his mansion. (I cannot tell you who or give any other details because I signed a piece of paper saying I wouldn’t, and probably if I did I would be hunted down and shot or at least sued for every penny I earn until I’m dead.) I begged her to take me with her, and off into the night we went, stuffed in a stretch Hummer full of fake-fingernailed, hair-woven, beglittered lasses who drank like savages and allegedly can give quite the blowjobs (the photo above was taken from that night). I swam in the pool, alone, laughing nervously, then got so tired I fell asleep on a bench in the foyer near a security guard.

The year before that I was hired to round up the most unabashed of the ladies in my synchronized roller skating sorority gang to dance onstage with the Flaming Lips (fucking gross, yes, but remember that’s the point). We dressed in full furry animal costumes, then stripped out of them, wearing only the costume heads, ruffly undies and stars glued to our tits. Disgusting! Embarrassing! Amazing! Just before midnight I stole a mask and went to a furry party, snorted a bunch of blow and Ritalin, shit in the middle of the street, and passed out on a sidewalk in the snow wearing the mask, a fur coat, fur boots, and those aforementioned panties.

Is this stuff fun? I’ll be honest and say no. No, it’s not. But now I ask: is New Year’s Eve ever fun? Seriously? Any more fun than another fun night you had? You’d be a liar if you said yes. At least my rule guarantees titillation in its sadness, whereas an expensive night desperately chasing an idea of a good time is just flat depressing.

LIZ ARMSTRONG