I miss not being in Bangkok for the New Year celebrations this year. But then again, maybe not. I don’t know if the civil unrest will be spilling over to where the larger countdown parties are being held; more than likely the protestors will be partying themselves rather than using the gatherings for political purposes. But I’d probably avoid the one at CentralWorld this time around anyway. That’s been my normal hangout for ushering in my first hangover of the year in the past. Though the gods decided I should be elsewhere the year the bombs went off. And since they tend to enjoy screwing with man a bit too much I don’t think I’d take the chance this time around. Even without the gods’ intervention, you should always play the odds. And this New Year’s Eve, I don’t think they are in your favor.

I spent the bombing New Year’s Eve on Soi 4 with Nut, my muscle-bound friend from Tawan. As count down parties go, it was a bit anti-climatic. And on Thai time. There were balloons hanging in a large net to be dropped at the stroke of 12, and a few minutes later they did. But I got an unsolicited kiss from Nut (on time) which raised the bushy eyebrow of his younger brother who’d joined us for the night. Nut had both a younger and older brother who also worked at Tawan; this was his youngest sibling, who did not. What his brothers did for a living was no secret, watching his oldest bro swap spit with a farang was a new experience for him though. But then the balloons dropped and the joy of jumping on fallen balloons to pop them quickly pushed that memory into the past.

We headed over to Soi Twilight later that night, taking soi-side seats at what was then the Banana Club at the foot of the soi. The booze was flowing freely, and a large contingent of Euro-trash backpackers who’d decided the gay boys knew how to party the best were busy dancing in the street. There was one – I’m guessing British from the bad teeth – girl shaking her way too large booty who kept making eyes at Nut, an invitation to join her. And maybe more. I’ve just read a thread on one of the message boards about how all straight Thai boys fantasize about scoring a farang woman. Must be different for Burmese boys ‘cuz when I suggested Nut take her up on her offer he gave me an emphatic shake of his head. Along with stating the obvious. “She fat!”

Huh. I don’t know if she heard him. But then maybe it’d have been a good thing if she had. New Years is always a good time to start a diet. And when a straight boy who’s otherwise gonna spend the night in bed with an older gay guy considers that the lesser of two evils . . .

I met Noom at New Year’s too. Technically, the night before. But we ushered in the eve in bed together, and started off the new year that way too. That was my first year of joining the masses at the CentralWorld countdown. Literally. Not knowing better, we joined our fellow sardines in the unmoving pack of humanity stuffed into the street in front of the main stage. Hot, sweaty, and with no other choice than to swim where the school decided to go, I can’t say it was the most enjoyable of experiences. Until the fireworks went off and Noom declared each burst of fiery light, “Bee You Teeeee Full!” Falling in love is a great way to start your new year off.

Big on tradition, but wiser too, we’ve since spent most New Year’s Eves at the same spot, but at the slightly less crowded beer tents set up in front of the shopping mall. Each has its own stage, its own set of music acts, and all offer a view of the main stage. As well of the crowd filling the street below. It’s not your cheapest option, but reserving a table comes with a handful of script to use for more beer than you can possibly drink and a variety of local food to help soak up what you do manage to get down. We’ve done the beer tents for four, or maybe five, years. Different tents, different tables, different menus, but they all work the same. The more popular dishes they run out of. And even though you pay for them with your script when you order, if there’s none to be had . . . well, it’s just too much effort to be handing back fake money.

But then since it is usually just the two for us and the smallest table you can reserve is for four, we always have more script than we can spend anyway. Though Noom tries. At the end of the evening as the crowd below surges backwards and the beer tent waitstaff starts cleaning up, he carefully counts out what’s left and then orders that amount in Coke. Noom’s tradition is leaving the count down party carrying several cases of Coke through the crowd. His thriftiness satisfied, it doesn’t take long before the load becomes too much to bear and he starts handing out free cans of soda to anyone and everyone we bump into. I’ve never figured out how much those cans of Coke cost me. The joy Noom gets out of playing Santa on New Year’s Eve is worth it.

When I met Noom he was working at Future Boys. That bar morphed into Ocean Boys, and getting ready for the new year with plans on it being mor fortuitous by working at a new bar, we spent out last New Year’s Eve together there (it’s now Zeus, and, again, Noom has picked his old hangout as his new place of employment). I’m not sure why he decided we needed to spend New Year’s Eve in a gogo-bar that year, but out of all the years I’ve spent the holidays in Bangkok I’d never done so before so I went with his plan. And typical of Noom (and his OCD thingy) ‘plan’ was the operative word.

When we walked in the captain made a grand show of leading us to a table that had a Reserved sign on it. The night before New Years Eve, smack dab in the middle of high season, the bars are packed. On New Year’s Eve, not so much. There’s a lot of other parties going on in town. And a lot of the boys have already headed back home to spend the holiday with family. But it was the thought that counted. They’d hired that fat ladyboy who seems to emcee most of the bars’ special events for the night, and I got her so plastered she kept slipping off the corner of the stage she’d been siting on. Ah, good times.

Knowing there’d be no cans of Coke to be handed out that year, we’d hit Little India earlier that day to load up on calendars with Ganesha on them for Noom to pass out to his bar mates. Or at least those he liked. The calendars had all cost the same, but the pickings were slim so we had a half dozen of different styles. Noom had ranked which had the best photo of his favorite god on them and was careful about who at his bar got which calendar. I doubt if the boys knew the deference. The fat ladyboy emcee spilled a drink on hers.

The party culminated with a big cock contest, which Noom had arranged for me to be a judge for. It involved a ruler. And the aforementioned big cocks. Noom was quite pleased with himself, so I didn’t mention I don’t do metrics and just eyeballed what was presented to me instead. Not that it mattered. I don’t remember what the prize was other than it included cash, but Noom had already decided who needed to win. Which had nothing to do with size but rather who hadn’t landed any offs that week. I guess those who really measured up had already been taken care of through ample bookings. For a lot of punters a big cock contest sums up what Thailand is all about. For me, a big cock contest where the smallest guy wins and none of the other contestants complains says it all.

But this year that big cock contest is between those formerly known as Yellow Shirts and those formerly known as Red Shirts. And it looks like the army will be who decides who the winner is. Regardless of who wins, I hope it’s just politics as usual in Thailand and not the bloody battle that many are predicting. Maybe it’s a good year to miss the party in Bangkok. Hopefully, the fireworks will just be fireworks. I do know I’ll miss hearing Noom’s pronunciation of beautiful. And the big cocks too, of course.

Related Posts You Might Enjoy: