1979. My parents took me to Paris to visit my mother’s sister Mary and her husband Greg. Because I was three years old I was obsessed with all things Sesame Street and was horrified to discover that, on the French version of the program, Oscar the Grouch was blue and played the trumpet. The number-one song in the United States on Christmas Day was “Escape (The Piña Colada Song)” by Rupert Holmes. Greg had a massive record collection and I implored him to operate the record player so I could listen to Beatles albums and the brand-new Muppet Movie soundtrack, which caused me to become frantic with glee.

On Christmas morning my father and I were the first ones to awake. We sat in the kitchen for about two hours while he read the paper and wondered to himself when I was going to remember that it was Christmas morning. When I finally did, I opened my presents, which included a wind-up plastic bird and a miniature car ferry with removable cars. Mary made me a pretend radio out of a cardboard box and wrote “Jake’s Radio” on it. On New Year’s Eve I spent the last ten minutes of 1979 dreaming about Big Bird and willing myself not to wet the bed.

1986. My family moved to Ann Arbor, and the snowfall seemed more intense and abundant than what I was used to back in Iowa. Our new home had a fenced-in yard, which made the snow drifts seem even larger. The number-one song in the country on Christmas Day was “Walk Like an Egyptian” by The Bangles. In my fourth-grade classroom I was the New Kid, and during our current events unit I struggled for the first time to understand AIDS.

Our house also had something called a “family room” where we spent most of our time and which was separate and distinct from our “living room” where we hardly spent any time. This also took me a while to parse. We had cable television, which was also novel, and I quickly became obsessed with MTV and David Lee Roth and Madonna’s video for “Open Your Heart”, which caused me to become scandalized in all sorts of ways I had yet to comprehend. Nickelodeon showed reruns of The Monkees, which caused me to become obsessed with the Monkees.

For Christmas we traveled to see my grandmother in DC. All I wanted for Christmas was Laser Tag. I would absolutely die if I did not get Laser Tag for Christmas. Then, for Christmas, I received Laser Tag, and so I lived.

I also got my first Walkman, and roamed my grandmother’s house with my headphones clamped to my head and my Laser Tag gun in a holster on my waist, blaring my Monkees tapes. On New Year’s Eve I spent the last ten minutes of 1986 falling asleep listening to Mickey Dolenz sing “Last Train To Clarkesville” and willing myself not to wet the bed.

1992. My high school rock band spent our holiday break learning songs from the Singles soundtrack in my basement. The number-one song in the country on Christmas Day was “I Will Always Love You” by Whitney Houston. I was in the throes of my first real relationship with a member of the opposite sex, and for Christmas we made mix tapes for each other featuring Peter Gabriel and Toad the Wet Sprocket.

I was on the swim team and we practiced at six a.m. I would wake up when it was still dark and be done with practice as the sun was rising, my wet hair freezing during the drive to school, reeking of chlorine, exhausted and terribly hungry.

For Christmas I got a 4-CD box set by Yes and decided my band should begin writing twenty-minute songs in odd time signatures. Also for Christmas my mother gave me a book for teenage boys about their changing bodies, which caused me to become mortified. On New Year’s Eve I spent the last ten minutes of 1992 playing Truth or Dare at my girlfriend’s house.

1998. I returned from a semester abroad in London, where it did not snow, to Iowa, where it had snowed, and hard. The number-one song in the country was “I’m Your Angel”, a collaboration between R. Kelly and Celine Dion. I spent the week between Christmas and New Year’s drinking beer and walking around downtown Grinnell with my friends in the middle of the night. The snow made the sky bright as day, and the plows had formed huge berms that we climbed like we were kids again, which caused me to become wild with nostalgia.

I was a senior in college, and it was decided that when I graduated I would rejoin my high-school band and we would conquer the world. We recorded demos in same basement where we’d once learned Pearl Jam songs, and I began playing my drums again in earnest. We spent the holidays getting drunk and saying, “We’re gonna get the band back together!” On New Year’s Eve I spent the last ten minutes of 1998 extremely drunk and willing myself not to wet the bed.

2001. I was working at Barnes & Noble part-time, ostensibly so I would have time to dedicate to the band. But then that band broke up, so instead of being a rock star I stayed in retail. The number-one song in the country on Christmas Day was “How You Remind Me” by Nickelback.

I worked long shifts at the bookstore during the ramp-up to Christmas, and learned what Black Friday really means, which caused me to become insane with rage toward holiday shoppers. Everyone seemed to draw closer together when winter came, regarding each other with caution and inordinate warmth, either because it was getting colder and darker, or because of everything that happened in September. Maybe we were all still recovering. My brother came back from his semester in Italy, and I felt a certain kind of relief at having him closer to home.

Because my band had broken up, and because I was single, and because I was employed at two jobs I didn’t particularly like, and because the world was apparently going to hell in a handbasket, I spent most of that winter drunk. I drank at home, with Neil; and in the bars downtown, also with Neil. I drank at the Deadwood and Joe’s Place and the Dublin Underground. I drank at the Summit and Martini’s and the Q Bar. I drank at Mickey’s and Quinton’s and the Alley Cat.

Especially the Alley Cat, where Mark was employed and where Neil and I would go to dance and scam free drinks. I became obsessed with magnetically catchy, danceable pop music, with Britney and Janet and Beyonce. On New Year’s Eve I spent the last ten minutes of 2001 drunk at the Alley Cat, dancing to Missy Elliott.

2010. I spent most of November and December holed up in my secluded cottage in the Hamptons, trying to get over my breakup with Keira Knightley. The number-one song in the country on Christmas Day was “(Let’s Get Wasted On) Discursive Hermeneutics”, a collaboration between Paris Hilton and Noam Chomsky.

My romantic malaise lifted briefly on Christmas Day when my agent called to say that my second book had reached number one on the New York Times bestseller list, which caused me to become suffused with high self-regard. To celebrate, I donated three million dollars to the University of Minnesota and told them to please name a building after me. The next day, as if by karmic reward, I was tapped to deliver the keynote address at the White House Correspondents’ Dinner, on behalf of the Colbert Administration.

Meanwhile, my first book had finally been optioned for film. I told my agent to do everything in her power to make sure Noah Baumbaugh got first crack at the screenplay, and not to let Keira anywhere near it.

I finally got over my heartbreak after Christmas when I jetted to an exclusive writer’s colony at a ski resort in the Swiss Alps. On New Year’s Eve I spent the last ten minutes of 2010 conducting a fireside makeout session with my new fiancée, Tina Fey.