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On New Year’s Eve we immersed ourselves in the four ancient magic elements: earth, air, fire, and water. I’m not sure that was the intention of the ritual, but as it turns out, having a bonfire on the beach during a storm will create exactly that sort of experience.

Our celebrity ex-neighbor, who has moved with his wife and chickens back to the big City, hosts a year-end celebration on the extreme western edge of San Francisco. We were invited, and instructed to bring wood scraps. We brought a bottle of wine too, because sometimes wood scraps don’t go well with the entree.

Dinner came in two parts, to ensure we were all sufficiently fortified for the physical challenge of standing around a fire waiting for midnight. Our friends made a pot of gumbo large enough to feed the entire population of the French Quarter. On a Friday. During Mardi Gras. It contained two kinds of meat, and I enjoyed them both (although in very small quantities).

But that was just the teaser, the amuse-bouche. The main course was still to come.

There was a pot of vegetarian beans nearly as big as the pot of gumbo. There was a plate of expertly sliced avocado. There was a bowl of fresh salsa. There was a stream of fish, sauteed with onions. There was a stack of hot, homemade tortillas. It was a fish-taco buffet. I never got out of line — I just kept eating, except when I was drinking, and even then I did ‘em both if nobody was looking at me. The meal was truly great.

Afterwards we carpooled to Ocean Beach. We’d collected our wood scraps and a few discarded Christmas trees and packed one car full of both. We lugged all the wood, the trees, coolers, and our overfed selves up the beach, in the dark, to a suitable spot, then dug a pit in the sand and built a fire.

Over the next few hours, time seemed to pass quickly. More friends joined, appearing out of the darkness, having satisfied other commitments elsewhere. We tended the fire, proposed toasts, told stories. A few hearty folks left the warmth of the fire to explore the beach, dimly illuminated by reflected city lights.

Just before midnight, the scattered droplets we’d been feeling became a steady drizzle. The wind picked up. Standing with my face to the fire, I didn’t notice the rain until I turned into it. The backs of my legs were cold and wet; the fronts, warm and dry. I backed up to the fire to even out the sensation, but my jeans started steaming. Hot, wet denim is scarcely more pleasant than cold, wet denim. I can’t recommend either, except on someone else’s legs, in which case I could pretty much go either way.

At midnight, we torched the pine trees. The resulting crackly fireball was as good a commemoration of the turning of the calendar as I’ve experienced.

We packed up and left a while later, having bequeathed the fire to a few hangers-on. Once in bed, I slept like a dead man, if that dead man had eaten 7 lbs. of fish tacos for dinner.

One of the party guests stayed up all night. I don’t think he ever sleeps.

I have a germ phobia. You may know this; I’ve written about it before, and before that, and even before that. And again even before I began publishing my stories online — as evidenced by an old travelogue email I sent to friends several years ago, which recalled:

I saw a poster recently that screamed in 72-point Futura Heavy Condensed, “The Ten Most Common Causes of Infection.” The picture showed a pair of hands. I was thinking that they should have airbrushed something grotesque at the end of each of the fingers, but I suppose it’s better to leave some things to the imagination.

Why go to all the trouble of maintaining a phobia? For one thing, I work at home, so I’m not as frequently exposed to the variety of pathogens that, say, you are. For a second thing, I once had a condensed germ-transmission experience, where I sat down (healthy) next to a sneezing classmate and, within two hours, began sneezing myself. Actually it may have been the other way around — maybe I was the sick one, and I infected the person I sat next to, which would explain why I chose to sit next to her after she’d refused to go out with me the previous weekend. Anyway, I digress.

Traveling always makes me mindful of germs, because airports are chock full of vermin. I’m referring to the people. I once saw a skycap rub his thumb across his front teeth, like he’d dropped his toothbrush but kept on brushing, and then reach out with the same hand (thumb glistening wet) to pick up a suitcase. So when my mother cautioned me to wear a mask during my upcoming flight, I had to agree that it was a good idea. I work hard to stay healthy, and unsusceptible to bad germs, but still, avoiding exposure seems wise.

A trip to the pharmacy yielded two safe-travel treasures: a seven-pack of High Filtration Efficiency Maxi-Masks and a box of 200 (!) alcohol swabs. Yes, a few years from now I won’t fly without a personal oxygen supply and a full-body condom.

Once seated on the airplane, I reached for a mask, but stopped short. People will stare at me, I thought. My brother reported the same struggle — he carried a mask during his flight, but didn’t wear it either. It sounds dumb, I know, but there I was, not wearing a mask. “Send me your infectious vapors,” I seemed to be saying, “I’d rather breathe them in than risk having you laugh at my mask.” I finally put the mask on after everyone was seated.

I made liberal use of the swabs. I had to: the reason there were so many in the box is that each swab was only two square inches in size, about enough to wipe three of the Ten Unholy Fingertips of Infection before disintegrating.

So, did it work? Did I get sick?

I very nearly did. I used the mask for about half the flight, and I kept my hands clean, and yet the next morning I awoke to an unpleasant creeping nausea that made me wonder if breakfast would stay down. I had hot flashes. I had cold flashes. If it hadn’t been for the diarrhea, I’d have thought I was going through menopause. Fortunately all the symptoms faded after 12 hours. It wasn’t the flu after all.

The problem, I believe, was not a lack of sanitary precautions. My precautions were just not designed to protect me from bad airport-concession sandwiches, an unexpected vector of infection. We ate one at SFO that was so saturated with tapénade that the anchovy and olive flavor even overpowered the taste of the plastic sandwich wrap. Next time, we’ll remember an old lesson and bring our own sandwiches.

Costco has begun selling its customer list. If you are a Costco member, you may wish to opt out of “information sharing” — call 1-800-774-2678.

The rep I spoke to claims Costco has always had an opt-out policy. This may be true, but I believe they’ve just started taking advantage of it recently. She was unsure whether Costco rents its list or sells it outright.

If you call, please express your disappointment that Costco has abused your privacy in this way. Pressure from customers could cause the decision makers to change their policy. They gave me this excuse for assuming that customers want third-party solicitations: “all other major corporations do the same thing.” That’s so lame it doesn’t even merit analysis.

It really bothers me that they call it “sharing,” like they’re doing a generous thing, looking out for my best interests.

They tell me this is the largest portable Ferris wheel in the world. With the bright blue Christmas afternoon sky as a backdrop, the possibilities for neat photos seemed unlimited.

But then a plainclothes guard chased me away. I guess I’m just as threatening in real life as I am in my kickboxing fantasies, especially when I’m dressed in eight layers of sweaters and I have my face scrunched up behind a camera.