Times Square: The Sleazy Years

I grew up in the suburbs of New York and had only one goal: get to The City. As a teenager I took the train in whenever possible and soaked up as much '70s atmosphere as I could. And believe me, in the '70s the place was thick with atmosphere--a stew of graffiti, beggars, X-rated movie theaters with "greeters," Diane Arbus subjects, and an overarching sense of menace and inflation. It was not a place for children, and I was thrilled no longer to be a child.

In the 1970s Times Square was the epicenter of New York atmosphere. The place had not yet been Disneyfied and my friend Gaynor and I spent a wet and sleazy New Year's Eve there getting kissed by strangers as 1974 turned to '75. Up by the ball in One Times Square, Dick Clark was challenging Waldorf-Astoria-based Guy Lombardo for the network TV title of Mr. New Year's Eve, and it gives me a stark sense of the passage of time to realize that Dick was then a newbie at the job. But Gaynor and I cared nothing for either of them.

We had gone to see a Mountain concert at the Felt Forum, the smaller stage attached to Madison Square Garden. (These days it's called, depressingly enough, the WaMu Theater.) Gaynor and I had been forbidden to see each other by her mother, who inexplicably thought I was a bad influence. Who, me? I had graduated high school at 16 and was already halfway through my freshman year of college while Gaynor was cutting the bulk of her 11th grade classes. Somehow I only seemed to get in trouble when I was with Gaynor, and my own mother had given up her ineffective efforts to keep us apart once she realized I probably wouldn't end up in jail.

At any rate, that December 31st Gaynor and I took the commuter train into Grand Central and walked to Madison Square Garden for the early show, about which I remember absolutely nothing except that it got out around 11:00p.m. There was a light rain and of course we were too cool to carry umbrellas, so by the time we walked the 10 blocks to Times Square we were cold and clammy.

Like everyone else on earth we'd heard that this was the place to be on New Year's Eve. And like everyone else on earth, we had gone there that night. The streets were packed, and the moistness gave the scene the feel of a giant, chaotic, open-air locker room during some twisted championship game.

In this case, the game seemed to be to see how many strangers you could kiss before the ball dropped. We were grabbed and buffetted about the closed-off streets, our faces slobbered on by men tall and short, fat and thin. They spoke to us in foreign languages and, occasionally, English. It felt frenzied and lawless and somewhat thrilling. We veered between wanting to run for the train and to play the kissing game to win.

Finally, just as we'd had about enough, I was grabbed by a ringer for the Marlboro Man. He enveloped me in his damp arms, tilted me back and kissed me deeply. For the first and only time that night, I kissed back. I had visions of '40s movies and a tingle that I could have easily believed was true love. I wanted it to go on forever but in a matter of moments he raised me back up and strode off. "Wait!" I wanted to yell after him. "Let me give you my phone number!" If only I could have squeaked out a sound at that point, or remembered my phone number.

To this day when the talk turns to memorable kisses I am transported to the recruiting station just under the ball-drop and the arms of a beautiful stranger.

The rest of the night was anticlimatic. Gaynor and I got our sodden bodies on the train, which was delayed for more than an hour when a man dropped dead in one of the front cars. Gaynor had no patience for tragedy and took his death as a personal affront. She knew that there would be no explaining her lateness to her mother. Indeed, my diary from January 1, 1975 notes that I dropped her home at 3:15a.m. and when I got home at 3:30 my mother was sitting in the kitchen. She said that Gaynor's mother had called and would I please refrain from doing things that would bring on those calls.

A postscript: I worked in Times Square in the 1980s, still pre-Disney, and occasionally would marvel that "normal" life went on amid this circus. When I stepped outside my office I could watch Olympic-quality breakdancers perform on a flattened box used earlier in the day for three-card monte games. I'd be offered whips and wrench sets for sale--whatever had fallen off the truck that day. I loved those streets, even if I had to hold on extra tightly to my purse while trying to focus on the warm glow. I might point out that I was never mugged until I foolishly took a trip to Philadelphia.

As a New Yorker of a certain age (and I still consider myself a New Yorker even though I've been gone for two decades), I feel nostalgic for the freakish and dangerous that used to thrive in Manhattan and was especially concentrated in Times Square. It's hard to find a good whip salesman or breakdancer these days, ironically harder around 42nd Street than in small-town USA. But if you're looking for an accomplished kiss from a hot stranger, I suggest you hop a plane to New York for Monday night's festivities. Even cleaned up, there's still nothing like Times Square on New Year's Eve. At least once.

Originally published 12/30/07.

Good Riddance to the Holidays

It's all finished and I couldn't be happier. No more parties or baking, no more shopping, wrapping or Christmas TV programming. No pressure to write cards. No more decorating, and no more putting decorations away. Can I get a "turn, turn, turn" and an amen?

It's been two days since anyone wished me "Happy New Year." I'm sure there will still be a few stragglers--last year I even got one in February! But the holidays have officially ended and happy days are here again. (Except for the 2008 election hysteria that makes my hellish holidays look brief and functional. But let's not get into politics.)

Yesterday I got the fake tree and all of the ornaments, linens, home decorations and serving pieces put away. I stripped the tree over the weekend, so I only had a few days with a naked tree and a pile of ornaments on the floor--and my holiday bar has been lowered sufficiently that I can feel good about that! I was thrilled to close the garage door with all the Christmas boxes inside while we were still in the single digits of January. It's easy to exceed expectations when you don't set them too high. In fact, there's even a low-expectations song about resolutions that I like a lot.

Now my living room looks really empty. I'm thinking of holding an aerobics class in there. Except I was so careful about not losing control over the holidays that I'm doing a reverse resolution now. I've cut back on exercise and I'm gorging myself. Oh well, at least I looked good in the Christmas photos. Valentine's Day could be another story, however.

I was pleasantly surprised to find a few fake needles on the floor around my new fake tree. It gave me a warm reminder of the bad old days when those needles would be plentiful, and accompanied by a big old dead tree that needed to be dumped somewhere. This year, no problem. Just break it down, fold it up and put it back in its box. Of course, that box is so heavy that it takes two people to heave it into storage, but if you live right there's always a Santa's Helper around when you need one. Oh, and I put the needles in a snack-sized Ziploc bag for next year.

I'm also happy there is no more Christmas music blasting through the streets and stores. My beloved XM Radio has stopped pushing its dedicated holiday music stations and is back to its highly targeted and diverse offerings. Now most of its promotions seem to involve Led Zeppelin, which is fine with me.

This year I didn't get anything for Christmas that I needed to return, which was a pleasant surprise. My son, however, rethought everything on his wish list and even exchanged gifts he had specifically requested. I didn't mind too much, except the part where I had to look the Gamestop salesman, who is probably half my age, right in the eye and confirm that I was allowing my child to bring home a game that promotes killing and cursing. Everyone in the store listened in as he read me the definition of the M rating on the new selection. Yep, that's the one we wanted. Now put it in a bag so I can skulk out the door.

I braved the day-after-Christmas sales this season for the first time in years. They were as horrible as I remembered, but I still managed to do quite a bit of damage. I saved hundreds of dollars, but of course that kind of bragging doesn't come cheap.

So for this year, it's all over but the bill-paying. Oh, and the thank you notes.

Originally posted January 10, 2008

Hellish Holidays from Around the Web

Today's New York Times has an article on those who feel "this is the year of the anti-Christmas." Whether the economy, the environment, or just plain burnout, these grinches are finding excuses for skipping the tree and the gifts.

What are your memories of sitting on Santa's lap? As these photos indicate, sometimes it looked like there was something else going on!

And a couple of videos to keep the mood going!

Christmas Confessional



A great if hellish song by the Hives and Cyndi Lauper.


It Couldn't Have Been Worse?



Dad yelling, sister running away from home - it does sound pretty bad. But there's always hope!

Getting Emotional at Christmastime

Are anxiety and depression - the flip sides of peace and joy - inevitable at the holidays? It sure feels like it. For every positive, heart-warming aspect of Christmas, there's something infuriating or just plain annoying to rise up and attempt to blot it out - a Joe Lieberman blocking the very health care reform he once proposed, for example. I try to be positive, to see the silver lining and ignore the cloud, but the holidays don't make it easy.

The tree is up and makes me smile every time I see it - until I notice the block of lights out at its bottom. This is only the third Christmas since I bought my fake-but-expensive Martha Stewart Mount Sterling and the thing is already breaking down. Needless to say, no one answers the customer service line.

I love the delicious holiday food - so much that I've gained three pounds and there's still two weeks left until New Year's and its repetitive resolutions.

I plan and shop for months to get just the right presents for everyone and pride myself on completing shopping and shipping well before deadline. Then, despite assurances from a vendor that the gift is in the mail, it's not. It may yet show up, but even if it does it's already missed my cross-country shipment to my sister and her family.

See what I mean? I want to have goodwill toward men (and Martha) but there are just so many obstacles.

Better to Give Than to Receive

It all starts out so well. The gift radar turns on in October and by Thanksgiving I've got a great start.

I’ve made a list, checked it several times and even placed a few online orders. But I’m still feeling the pressure of getting the right gifts. Some people just have a question mark next to their name, meaning I can’t make any progress until I figure out what to give. Other people are so easy to buy for that I have to hold myself back.

The way the holiday issues of magazines push last-minute, homemade and inexpensive gifts, you wouldn't think anyone planned ahead, drove to a store and paid retail. They're filled with quick and easy "crafts" that would give Martha Stewart the dry heaves and plenty of ideas for "Great Gifts for Under $10." Yes, it is possible to do all your Christmas shopping at 7-11! But then how will you look those recipients in the eye when you know all their friends have heard the uproarious story of your Doritos gift basket?

I'm all for bargain hunting. Heck, I saved an amazing $74.59 at the supermarket last week using the Club Card and coupons. Of course, they were having a wine promotion that skewed the results. (Hey, I need to stock up for the holidays!) But when it comes to family and friends, it's time to bite the bullet and get something that they can return without being told, "That didn't come from here" or "This item was discontinued in the '90s. Hey, Myrna, come and take a look at this!"

Even if the gifts you receive are obvious pass-alongs, or come from thrift shops, rummage sales or the back of the giver's own junk closet, you can still take the moral high ground with a well-thought-out gift from a real store (on- or off-line) with a gift receipt. Unless you know that the recipient of your gift is into "vintage," you can knit like Monica Lewinsky, or you really can craft with flair, better to skip the homemade approach and do the right thing.

Originally published November 7, 2007

Who Loves You?

During the summer between high school and college, back in the '70s, I got caught up with a dysfunctional group that hung out at a bar in Scarsdale called Tommy's Tavern. My friend Gaynor and I, although teenagers, tried to shoehorn ourselves in with a cast of 30-something drunks. They played in a softball league on a team they named the Cunning Linguists. We were young and stupid enough to be amused by their hilarious way with words and flattered by their attention. We actually fought over the most dysfunctional of them all, Vincent (not his real name).

Vincent had lived with a girlfriend for many years but they were forever breaking up. That summer, she had moved out, leaving him with his black velvet paintings, naked lady shower curtain and Bob Dylan LP collection. What a catch!

Gaynor and I attempted to one-up each other with our closeness to Vincent, in a "he likes me better/no, he likes me better" way that I now shudder when I recall. Ultimately, we both had some wins and some losses. My high points included his installing some shelves in my mother's living room and taking me to see "The Man Who Fell to Earth." There were plenty of low points as well, as there will be for those who hang out in bars.

In the fall I left for NYU and forgot about Vincent. But I went home for Thanksgiving and the Wednesday before the holiday (traditional returning student celebration night) headed out to a bar to catch up with everyone. Before I even made it inside, I ran into Vincent. He seemed glad to see me and insisted that we should get together while I was home. He asked for my phone number and promised to call. I was skeptical, given his track record. He sloughed off my skepticism, saying, "Who loves you, baby?"

I'm not sure whether he was quoting the Four Seasons, who'd just had a hit song by that title, or Kojak, a then-current TV show starring Telly Savalas as a bald detective with that catch phrase. Either way, it seemed like a phony line, delivered ironically. I responded in kind: "I don't know. Who loves me, Vincent?" Taken aback, he paused just a moment before saying, "You know I do, babe."

In fact, I knew he didn't. I knew it absolutely, in a grown-up, scales-fallen-from-the-eyes kind of way. I turned and went into the bar. He didn't call and I never saw him again. I later heard he'd married the long-time girlfriend and had several kids. Happy Thanksgiving to them all!

Alternative Turkey Preparations

Turkey in a Trashcan


This how-to video gives you step-by-step instructions on how to cook a full-size turkey in your backyard using, yes, a metal trashcan. That "lovely assistant" sure is a downer!

Kinky Turkey Flogging


This guy insists on only the tenderest and most submissive of turkeys.

Fire in the Hole


The oven is on fire, the alarm is blaring--and the turkey is raw. Think Martha Stewart could pull that off?

Turkey Drop


A 14-pound turkey with is dropped into turkey fryer filled with boiling oil causing - no surprise here! - a fireball. Don't try this at home. Or anywhere. Any time. Ever.

Thanksgiving Politicking

Guest blogger Jillian Ashley Blair Ivey shares her Bush II-era Thanksgiving memories.

During my freshman year of college I was 2000 miles away from my hometown and completely without any family in the area. My Thanksgiving plans entailed going to New York and spending the holiday weekend with a friend and her relatives. When a combination of laryngitis and acute homesickness put me on a last-minute flight to Texas instead, my friend promised that the invitation for Thanksgiving dinner would still be open the following year. I took her up on it.

At the time, New York still held a bit of mystique for me. I’d been living in Philadelphia for a little over a year by that point, making frequent weekend trips up to the Big Apple. I’d shopped on Fifth Avenue; I’d seen shows on Broadway; I’d been in a rowboat in Central Park; I’d hailed my own taxi. But I hadn’t quite figured out how people could actually live in New York. I felt small and slow and quiet. I needed to take a breath before emerging from Penn Station. This Thanksgiving would give me an opportunity to see how real New York life was lived.

I did not know until I got to my friend’s parents’ apartment, just a few blocks off of Lincoln Center, that I would not actually be experiencing a real New York Thanksgiving, but rather a real North Jersey Thanksgiving. We traveled just over the bridge to a town filled with ex-Manhattanites who’d decided they needed lawns or bigger closets. This is where my friend’s parents’ oldest friends now lived. And on the surface, it was an idyllic setting for a real, old-fashioned Thanksgiving. I wouldn’t get my cramped, Manhattan meal, but maybe I could hope for a slice of Norman Rockwell.

No.

I may not have been in New York, but I was still amongst New Yorkers. As a Texan, I was regarded as a bit of a novelty at the dinner table. There are no Bloomingdale’s in El Paso, Texas. No Neiman Marcuses or Saks Fifth Avenues. We had a Macy’s but it was brand new. Theater tended to be of the community variety, with the occasional touring company coming through. I love my hometown, but suddenly it felt so … pedestrian. But still, I knew the questions I was asked were borne of curiosity and not rudeness. I was a guest, and made to feel welcome. At least until the conversation turned to politics.

Although New York City had, by that point, had Republican mayors for almost a decade, the city is generally regarded as a Democratic one. My friend’s family and their friends certainly voted blue. It was 2003, two years and change after September 11. While possibly popular with New Yorkers for five minutes after visiting Ground Zero, the second President Bush was doubtless amongst New Yorkers’ least-beloved public figures by this dinner. And he had served as governor in my home state for five years before becoming president. General consensus at the table was that Bush was a bad president; this was expressed in ways varying from a call for impeachment to a call for his head. Suddenly, I felt all eyes on me: “Jill, you’re from Texas. What do you think of the president?”

There was absolutely no correct way to answer that question, so I answered around it: “I think that I spend too much time studying to pay much attention to politics.”

“Don’t you have an opinion?”

“Not one I feel qualified to share.”

The room was quiet, but I was raised not to discuss politics in polite company, whether I agreed with them or not (and I did, in some regards) and so I wasn’t going to be the one to break the silence. I think everyone at the table finished eating as quickly as possible, just to get away from the awkwardness.

The next Thanksgiving, I had dinner with friends in Philadelphia.

The Thanksgiving Concert Disaster

In 1982 I worked for Billboard Magazine. I loved it, and I loved the perks. Free records! Free concerts! Going backstage. Getting on "the list." Bringing a "plus one." For one who had been turned away from Studio 54 in its heyday, it was heaven.

Over Thanksgiving weekend 1982, Peter Gabriel played the Palladium, a wonderful old venue on 14th Street in Manhattan. I scored comp tickets to the Saturday performance, the second of Gabriel's two nights there. I was going with my boyfriend, Danny, who was a big fan. But first, I had to take a quick trip to Washington with my family for Thanksgiving, to visit my grandmother, Mimi. Mimi didn't like Danny - or anyone else, for that matter - so he wasn't going.

The trip, with my mom and younger sister Lisa, was in my 5-speed Celica that I was the only one capable of driving. I told them that we had to come back on Saturday so I wouldn't miss the show. That worked for everyone because, after all, the traffic on Sunday would be much worse on the NY-DC corridor.

I'll skip the details about our time in Washington. Saturday we set out for the return to New York. Although we thought we'd left plenty of time, the Saturday traffic was Sunday-quality and the trip took hours more than we'd anticipated. Instead of dropping my mom and Lisa at their place, we had to go straight to the Palladium, park the car in an expensive lot (since neither of them could drive stick) and have them take the subway home. This, naturally, upped the crankiness level for all concerned.

I can still see mobbed East 14th Street vividly as we pulled up next to a fire hydrant. In those pre-cell phone days I'm not sure how Danny and I coordinated meeting on a street corner, but we pulled it off. He got in, we secured the car, escorted my family to the subway and headed to the Palladium. We arrived just as the music was beginning, and I was thinking the drive from hell might have been worth it.

Then we got to the doors. I handed over the tickets, which had been in my wallet all week. The ticket-taker handed them back to me. "These are for last night," he said, turning to the next patron.

I begged. I squeezed out a few tears. I flashed my Billboard business card. None of it had any impact. We were asked to step aside and, in shock, we did.

Danny was very understanding. We had to accept what had happened, he said. We'd do something else fun, maybe see a movie. I staggered down the street, the embodiment of denial. This couldn't be happening. I was responsible for a heinous error that would deprive my boyfriend of the chance to see Peter Gabriel. No "Shock the Monkey"! No "Games Without Frontiers"! Even I liked those, and I had despised Genesis. Why hadn't I entrusted him with the tickets? He surely would have noticed the date and could have gone without me the previous night.

But life goes on. We picked a movie starring Sting, Brimstone and Treacle. At least there would be a British rock star involved in our evening's entertainment. We settled in.

Well, this was one twisted movie, involving Sting's deceiving the parents of an invalid young woman, earning their trust and becoming her caregiver. He violates her in a particularly erotic scene that left me veering between shock and awe, but coming down firmly on the side of awe. It was sexy, and I said so to Danny. He was horrified.

I had been a lifelong feminist, but that night Danny essentially accused me of being brainless and submissive. The girl had been abused, didn't I see that? Sure I did, but Sting was so hot! I told him if I ever ended up in a coma, he had permission to do to me what Sting had done to that girl.

Danny was disgusted. It might have been residual resentment over missing Peter Gabriel, it might have been bitterness about my lust for Sting. It might even have been righteous indignation at what I now agree was an appalling act. But come on, it was only a movie. Some guys would have run with it when their girlfriend said she was turned on.

The night ended with a huge fight in puffy coats on University Place. I got my feminist mojo back, and remember fighting the urge to pummel him and yell that he was a stubborn Sta-Puft. And I went home alone. But at least I didn't have to take the subway.

---

A side note about the Palladium: Like so much else, it's gone now. Originally the Academy of Music, built in 1927 and renamed the Palladium in 1976, in 1985 it was remade as the ultimate club by Studio 54 alumni and parolees Ian Shrager and Steve Rubell. Decorations were by Basquiat, Haring, Clemente and Scharf and the music, video and patrons were up to those same standards. The club outlived Rubell, who died in 1989. But in 1997 the building was acquired by New York University, demolished and replaced by a dorm and Trader Joe's. I've seen the line at Trader Joe's rival the line to get into previous versions of the Palladium. But of course it's not the same.

Thanksgiving in the Olden Days (Videos)

Home Movie: Thanksgiving 1957


Ah, the old days. Everyone dresses in their nicest clothes for Thanksgiving. They start with a prayer, then it's time to chow down, followed by dancing. So nice and quiet, too.

A Rootie Tootie Thanksgiving Special


A time capsule from the early days of TV: a 1950 Thanksgiving special. Check out those credits! Aging Baby Boomer Ira Gallen has spent more than 30 years collecting and restoring old 16mm & 35mm films and Kinescopes.

Thanksgiving Dinner 1962


Breaking out a movie camera was a lot bigger deal in 1962 than it is now. It also involved a blinding light, developing the film and a whole production with a very loud projector and a screen to play it back.

1985 Flashback


Thanksgiving 1985: From back in the day when the kids lined up and stood still for the video and only the camera moved.

A Day of Thanksgiving


A classic old black-and-white short film (although it feels v e r y long) about the real meaning of Thanksgiving. And acting lessons. And cinematography.

A Trailer Trash Thanksgiving (Videos)

Thanksgiving at the Trailer Park


A Hillbilly Thanksgiving. (Hey, she said it!)

Thanksgiving: The Official End of Halloween


This guy has so much to be thankful for, he gets a little choked up. Totally understandable. After all, no one's in jail this year!

Peas in the Nose


The fine art of Thanksgiving table manners--with a trashy touch.

Labor Day Misery

Laboring on Labor Day


Cleaning the toilet is no fun any time.

G.W. Bush Flashback


Wow, it seems like more than a year has passed since we got to make cheap jokes about Bush taking a day off.

Pyrotechnics Gone Wrong

Don't Shop With This Guy


Could his decision to go buy fireworks be any more poorly timed?

Why Fireworks Take Place Near the River


Whoever is heard cheering this explosion needs to go to the hospital with those who were standing near the fire.

Ground-Level Fireworks Display


The real disaster are those KDLH-TV graphics. Even for 1988 they're depressing.

Hellish Graduations

Kindergarten Graduation in Gaza


It starts early...


Eager Grad


He went all out to earn that diploma.


Wet and Wild Graduation Party


At least it's raining hard enough to put out that fire!

Weddings: Do You Believe in Bad Omens? (Videos)

Bridezilla Gets in the Mood


I give it six months.


Quick! We Need a Hostess Cupcake Run!


Every bride's nightmare--or one of many.

Wedding Thriller Dance


The wedding party were zombies! More fun than hellish.

It's Not a Wedding Unless Somebody Cries



Of course, it's not usually the groom.

Happy Father's Day!

Father's Day of the Future for Celebrities


New technology has allowed a documentary crew to interview celebrity children about Father's Day in 2032.


The Father's Day Song


Musical comic, J. Chris Newberg shows his appreciation on Father's Day.

Fred on Father's Day


Fred's dad ran off when Fred was still in utero. His intuition really paid off.

June Wedding Mishaps (Videos)

Tis the Season...for Embarrassing Moments


Is nothing sacred?


Not a Baptism


Moral: choose your attendants - and your altar - carefully.

Holy...Something


And they say weddings bring out the best in people. This should prove that theory wrong!

Nothing Like a Bomb Threat to Screw Up New Year's Eve

A story contributed by Steve (who usually works behind the scenes here):

I was closing out 2008 with a pleasant week snowboarding in Snowmass, Colorado. Many evenings we would go into nearby Aspen for a nice dinner but we figured that we'd stay away from the crowds New Year's Eve and just hang out in our condo. My son had other ideas and said we just had to do something "New Year's Eve-y". Little did we know that this was not to be a typical New Year's Eve, in Aspen at least.

Steve detonated bomb Aspen Mountain in background

Detonated bomb fragments at Steve's feet, with Aspen Mountain ski area in background

To my son's credit he did his research and discovered that there were fireworks scheduled over the slopes above Aspen at 8:30pm and midnight. We bundled up, got into our rental car, and headed over to Aspen, about 20 minutes away.

When we arrived, flashing lights of police cars and fire trucks could be seen at a few intersections. This didn't immediately concern me since I'd read how the Aspen police force would be out in force quelling any bar fights and looking out for underage drinking. We soon learned that these would be the least of the police force's concerns.

A friendly but professional policewoman was the first to inform us of the bomb threats made at two Aspen banks earlier that day. As the bomb squad dealt with the bombs, the most popular section of downtown Aspen was completely evacuated. What started as our quest to see explosions in the sky quickly turned to a desire to get our butts away from any explosions on the ground. We hightailed it back to our condo where we followed the story's progress on the web.

gift wrapping shards from detonated bomb

Close-up of detonated gift-wrapped bomb fragments

Unfortunately, the bomb threat was real and four gasoline bombs were discovered and safely detonated by the bomb squad. New Year's Eve is Aspen's second busiest night of the year (after the Fourth of July) so the evacuated businesses and workers took a major hit in lost revenue and tips. Fortunately, no one was hurt and the town of Aspen carried on and put on their fireworks shows on New Year's Day evening. This was my first New Year's in Aspen so I have nothing to compare to, but I suspect the New Year's night revelers were even more raucous during the fireworks. In the back of our minds we all knew we had dodged a bullet (or bombs, as it were).