We honestly don't know who at CNN had the brass cojones to sign off on the pairing of Kathy Griffin and Anderson Cooper to host their 2008 countdown festivities, but if this seven-minute clip is any indication, we just may have witnessed the birth of a New Year's Eve tradition. Like a glass-closeted Dean Martin and fag-hag Jerry Lewis, Griffin & Cooper elevated the art of ball-drop-anticipatory comedic banter to new heights. (Kathy: "My balls are freezing." Anderson: "We have some eggnog in the truck." Kathy: "Well I've got to watch my figure— I'm not like you." Anderson: "Don't worry, I'm not watching your figure either." *Gay rimshot!*)

On December 31st, Tracie Egan aka SlutMachine, a Jezebel writer and very well put-together woman (see photograph), hosted a party at her house. She even held a contest to be her date. We didn't go but apparently we missed some serious partying because today we got a very angry email/blog post. from her in which the phrase "passed out" "puked" and "Paypal" appear numerous times. Apparently her house is a mess. There's glitter on the floor, wine on the walls and a tampon on the couch. She needs help ($$$) cleaning up. As far as post-bacchanal pleas for renumeration go, this is tops and surely will be used as a template for other disgruntled party-throwers who happened to puke and pass out before someone spilled wine on their signed Dolly Parton poster. Now Egan is out $450, there's a hole in her wall and her "ass is really fucked up." Full tirade/plea/amazing artifact of our generation after the jump.

With seemingly so little to be thankful for this upcoming Turkey Devouring Day, at least we have the happy news that Dick Clark will be rejoining the 2008 New Year's Rockin' Eve festivities, where he'll again be accompanied by a virtually strikeproof Ryan Seacrest. There, at the precise stroke of midnight (perhaps an unfortunate choice of wording given the circumstances), Seacrest will finally deliver the noisemaker-blowing go-ahead to his delighted mentor, resulting in the faintest kazoo-squeak signal for "Auld Lang Syne" to begin.

In the end, all that time Ryan Seacrest exposed himself to the dangers of potential electrocution by engaging in an hours-long, open-mouth kiss with one of the Times Square ball's empty light bulb sockets was not spent in vain, as the New Year's Rockin' Eve host saw his wish granted of putting his freshly sharpened smooching skills to good use on Christina Aguilera shortly after midnight. Aguilera awkwardly swiveled her head away at the last moment, however, leaving Seacrest with nothing but a wall of bronzed cheek upon which to lay his big, wet one—perhaps to not muss her makeup, or simply to avoid coming into direct contact with Seacrest's well-documented, flexed-sphincter style of lip-lock.

While John Mayer and Jessica Simpson were sucking face at Stereo and Britney Spears was fainting in Las Vegas, Tinsley Mortimer, 31, was hosting a party at Japonais restaurant—a party so "exclusive" that it was still being desperately promoted in the days leading up to the event. And according to Socialite Rank, hostess Tinz was so worried about turnout that she was texting her so-called friends right until the day before New Year's, "inspiring polite refusals from top socialites who are safely resting in warm territories at the moment." Apparently only the Tinz's feckless husband Topper and her brother-in-law Peter Davis bothered to show, leaving them to party the night away with a lovely B&T crowd. How very ... populist of them.

The "new" year of 2007 already feels a little old and tired, or maybe that's just our liver talking. Such is the life we live, and the same is true with Gawker photographer Nikola Tamindzic, who made the nightlife rounds while 2006 expired messily in hundreds of filthy bathroom stalls all over town. Nikola braved the fleshy mobs of two events, presented for sober reflection. First up is the Motherfucker party at Rebel (Nikola's gallery here), an establishment deemed "popular with the rivethead subcrowd" of the goth species. If that's not enough to sate your implacable lust for questionable body parts and inevitable nipple-licking, turn your jaundiced eye to Trash at Rififi (Nikola's gallery here). The go-go dance contest comes with bonus "passed out in rainy gutter at dawn" action. Photos from both parties can be viewed here. Enjoy, though note that several pics are NSFW.

Friday
· Friday night music: The Oohlahs play the Echo, Blackalicious are at the El Rey.
· For those who just can't shake the Christmas spirit, Rudolph the Red-Hosed Reindeer gives the old TV classic the Real Live Brady Bunch-style camp treatment. At the Elephant Theater.
Saturday
· Blondie (yes, Blondie!) play the Canyon Club in Agoura Hills.
· King of Sleaze Mario Diaz's ongoing homo-and-friends dance party Hot Dog at Club 7969 provides all the condiments: You provide the meat.
Sunday
· Dutton's Beverly Hills is being threatened with closure by the city. Go show your support for this island of literacy smack dab in the middle of big agencyville from 11 a.m. to 5 p.m., where champagne will be provided.
Your New Year's Eve options:
· USC's Galen Center hosts The Flaming Lips, Gnarls Barkley, and Cat Power.
· The Little Radio Warehouse party features live performances by Autolux, Dead Meadow, and Bloodcat Love.
· Gridlock NYE on the Paramount lot features The Killers and your host, Carmen Electra. No CBS staffers without wristbands!
· Manny Lehman spins the gay circuit thing at the Hollywood Palladium. Rock out with your cock out, fellas.
· Serious house music lovers might want to check out Together As One 2007 at the Los Angeles Sports Arena, where Paul van Dyk, Deep Dish, Marco V and Danny Howell will be spinning, among others.
· Giant Maximus promises to deliver on its XXL name, with three tents downtown, featuring a six-hour set from Sasha & John Digweed, a three-hour DVDJ set from Sander Kleinenberg, and another three-hour set by Armin Van Buuren. Enjoy melting your brain into the new year, folks.

We realize not all of you will be out traipsing around your town this coming New Year's Eve, choosing instead to spend your final moments of 2006 in the comforts of your homes with ABC's own Father Time and Baby New Year—i.e. Dick Clark, whom they promise will be "back, live," and his bushy tailed yet meticulously manscaped replacement, Ryan Seacrest. And while we were giddily combing through photographs of the final touches being put upon the famed Times Square ball whose descent will be counted down by millions, it suddenly occurred to us that it was she—that shimmering, totemic orb symbolic of our communal progression—whom Seacrest should have been planting one on all along, and not Teri Hatcher! Congratulations, Ryan: You are the future.

You know, as we've been sitting here doing these posts all day, we've all collectively been wondering where we're gonna go this New Year's Eve to get our douche on. This has been a slow day, and we've all been distracted by thoughts of "the party," and where "it's at." Lord knows "the party" is the most important thing in New York these days, and if you don't know where "it's at," then you're pretty much fucked. Thankfully, we now know where "the party is at."

How bad have things gotten for Tara Reid? Apparently, so bad that she'll have to travel all the way to a Marriott in Chicago to get someone to pay her a modest appearance fee in exchange for downing tequila shots, dancing on top of a bar, and occasionally shouting a slurred "Woooo!" on New Year's Eve, activities which a basic cable channel once paid her to perform at drinking establishments all over the world. We can't bear to see Reid in such a desperate state, so party promoters of Los Angeles, we beg of you: Please make her an offer to let her stay in town for the biggest (amateur) drinking night of the year; we're sure the Chicago people haven't sold too many of those $135 and $165 tickets yet, and would be compassionate enough to release her from her commitment if a less embarrassing offer came along.