There are many things I drink to enhance: My charm, my love of my fellow man, the anecdotal size of my penis and fighting prowess. The one thing I don't drink to enhance is my punctuality. As far as I'm concerned, a good drunk erases vast swathes of time from history. If I can't remember it, I kind of don't believe you when you tell me it happened. Oh, I'll apologize and pay for the damages and yadda yadda yadda -- it's only polite. But the part of my brain that tracks chronology is forever convinced that a blackout means we've jumped forward in time, and are now trapped in a future that is not wholly our own.
And that's fine. If it's good enough for Buck Rogers and Philip J. Fry, it's good enough for me.
Also good enough for me: Silver spandex and robots wearing hip hop clock necklaces.
Besides, it's kind of an unspoken contract that time is irrelevant when drinking is involved. There are only two hours in a bar: Opening and last call.
But not for New Year's Eve. This holiday comes standard with both a built-in drunk and a built-in deadline. Those two things rarely play nice together. We all have to pay attention to that clock for the last half of the night, and that means somebody at the bar is going to be relegated to watch duty.