For the last many years, my New Year’s Eves have had a ritual sameness: Put on my party heels, pour several warm-up pops, then take off for a friend’s house to join him, his lovely wife, and a circle of regulars, who, as my friend delicately puts it, “come to watch you make an ass of yourself.” It’s an evening full of bellicose singing, filthy limericks, libidinous overtures, and tearful confessions. That’s when my wife usually says, “Are you done? We’re here. Time to get out of the car.”

Once inside, we play a game called Salad Bowl, in which players give their team clues about words written on slips of paper by other players, drawn from a bowl. The women write the names of famous people or things. The men tend to favor popular euphemisms for unspeakable acts that would draw a suspended sentence with heavy community service if practiced in large swaths of the Bible Belt. Around midnight, somebody half–heartedly suggests turning on Ryan Seacrest in Times Square to see if his ball has dropped. But by then, deeply into our own besotted rhythm, we quickly return to barking out “Phoenix Flugelhorn!” or “Crisco Pole Vault!” and watching our wives/designated drivers recoil in horror.