Meredith just spilled for the first time. It’s 9:15 p.m.

In the wee hours of the morning, while the sun shone brightly on the other half of the world, a couple thousand Long Islanders sat in their cars in silent anticipation. The cars were neatly packed into a dark parking lot, every here and there one illuminated by the eerie glow of a lamppost. The fenders sat a little lower than usual in these first moments of the day after Thanksgiving, as most bellies were still stuffed to unusual dimensions with turkey and pumpkin pie.

Yesterday — whether or not the majority of you readers know — was an epic day of importance in the lives of millions of gay men across the United States. No, Proposition 8 was not overturned, nor were laws preventing homosexuals from adopting. Something more directly correlated to these individuals’ happiness occurred: Britney Spears’ latest album, Circus, was released.

In the interest of summing up the semester — this being my final column of 2008 — and because I’m at a loss for things to write about, I’m going to supply loyal readers (that means you, Dad) with a Weiss-a-roni-style list of my favorite musical things. The underlying message here being that because I love these things, you should love them too.

I woke up yesterday morning and sat bolt upright from the cushy, puke-green sofa in my living room I had fallen asleep on earlier that night (morning?). Something was definitely not right. I pulled the notes I was using to write a rather fabulous English essay (due in approximately three hours) from my face and took stock of my emotions.

Most people’s parents don’t allow their grade school kids to choose a path of habitual insomnia via excess consumption of Nick at Nite. But mine did, and thank God, because I found my soul mate in the fogotton Brady Bunch middle child, Bobby. He and I are kindred spirits.

As I am writing this in Libe café — shoutout to all my fellow Libe-addicts — it is becoming increasingly snowy and cold outside. I am fortunately not out there, but I will be soon. And, because I was silly enough to believe the weather report, I am not wearing those singularly excellent and necessary winter items this column is about: boots.

Standing in the middle of Section B as the final minutes ticked off Lynah’s scoreboard on both Friday and Saturday night, I felt a nostalgic electricity reverberating through the student sections that seeped its way around the rink. I imagined that Lynah Rink once bore witness to this contemporary anomaly every evening its famed and feared ice hockey team laced up their skates. Scenes of students shuffling on the wooden bleachers before 7 p.m., of chest painted diehards who brave the tundra-like conditions, of 60 minutes of nonstop enthusiasm from the Faithful and townies alike, and of a domination of our Hahvahd and Dartmouth rivals flooded my mind amid visions of seasons past.

I consider the recent yet already beloved Disney Pixar film Ratatouille both a lie and an insult. The values it espouses are contrary to everything that my life’s experience has taught me, and what’s more, I find its title very hard to pronounce. My friend Sarah refers to it as “ruh-tah-tuh-ville.”

Let me ask you a question. If I was to, say, go out with one of my friends, race two cars around the neighborhood for 50 or 60 laps, would you call that a sport? How about if I did 200 laps? Or what if I got a small group of people to watch? And I promised to do a back flip after I win? Would you call that a sport? I thought you wouldn’t.