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Anno Domini 1999. The last year we get in this verdant swamp, according to some. At midnight on December 31st of this year, our time is up. Dams will break, oceans will boil, flames will lick out of rooftops and windows, bullets will fly, plagues will ruin complexions, wars will leave Range Rovers gasping for oil in the driveways, and poltergeists will fly out of televisions. In other words, it’ll be the best New Year’s Eve bash ever!! Where are you gonna be, friends, for the party to end all parties? How are you gonna spend your last three hundred plus days and nights on Earth? Unfortunately, even a gamblin’ gal like myself isn’t gonna bet a day’s pay that the end of the world will be fully underway by this time next year. When I look at the skyline, as I bike home to my casa, I like to imagine giant flames coming out of every building, gas lines exploding, screaming well-coiffed heads dangling out of thirtieth-floor windows, then falling to their deaths. I fondly daydream about turning on the radio and hearing violent screams suddenly eclipsed by thick static....at last! you never have to hear a Matchbox 20 song again! Wouldn’t it be grand? Hopefully the angels of the apocalypse would be discerning and let all the little furries live on in unfettered peace and puppies and kitties can establish a higher civilization contingent on instinct–something humans left behind long ago and so had to invent firearms to assuage their tortuous self-consciousness. But I’m not afraid. I’m ready to go.... Here’s what I want with me in heaven: The Rolling Stones’ Sticky Fingers, Pina Coladas, Lots of hot shoes and sexy lingerie to choose from. A great fuckin’ drummer who answers his phone, isn’t a flake, knows who Jerry Nolan is and why Black Sabbath rocks, My Silvertone amp, Fender guitar, and that pink Gibson SG that I DIDN’T GET FOR CHRISTMAS. Now I want a Les Paul instead. Please, Jesus. Aye, but here’s the rub, folks, and why I’m not packin’ my bags just yet....Why why why would this magnificent, millenia-in-the-making planet choose to self-destruct according to a calendar invented by silly self-absorbed humans? Granted, your computer might shut down and your Tanzanian Peaberry coffee beans might be delayed in transit, but those seven-headed beasts, plagues of locusts, and boiling oceans of sin? I’d like to see it, but I bet the year 2000 will merely see more bad music for bad people released by ugly, bloated, creativity-raping plagues of seven-headed monopolizing corporations; more fun articles on spirituality ˆ la Madonna, Courtney, and Sting; they’ll figure out how to clone a Spice Girl. . . and you’ll still have to pay your January rent by the fifth. Even if the world does go down in flames next year, the Republicans will blame it on the Democrats and I still won’t have health insurance. So, in the meantime, God bless us everything, cuz we surely fuckin’ need it. HAPPY NEW YEAR. |