New York City

By 11 p.m.—Happy New Year, San Juan, Puerto Rico!—Broadway is a thick, Technicolor soup of pee, puke, spilled beer, and probably some blood and semen. Confetti has camouflaged the puddles by now, though, making things very dangerous if you just bought some new shoes and aren't watching where you step.

At midnight, the ball drops—Happy New Year, New York!—fireworks shoot off, people do a lot of yelling and face-sucking, and they can't seem to vacate the area fast enough, even without the cops' pissy insistence. Everyone is trampling over a minefield of broken chairs, soiled blankets, and maybe a body or two. There's also the unmistakable squish-squish-squishing of feet trudging through the random minilakes of stomach/bowel/bladder discharge. The stench? Don't ask. Looking up as I'm leaving, I notice Marilyn Manson performing live in the MTV studios. Nobody cares.