There’s a ball on a pole, dear Liza, and it’s dropping by the second. I sure hope it doesn’t crash. It’s known as a “time ball,” and it moves very slowly; for, as it is written, “time flies when you’re having fun.” Without fail, every New Year in Times Square, the ball reaches its base. Its journey signifies the last ten counts of the span of seconds that filled the foregoing twelvemonth period. Now the gig is up. No option remains but to say “Happy New Year” and drink one cocktail, while the world either stops or keeps going. Then, on the morrow, you wake up next to your cousin.
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