I'd like to say I'm pissed, missing some exotic left coast Millenium celebration I've been planning for years (the bubbly, the body oil, the sparklers, the dancing, the party favours, the peacock feathers), but I'm afraid watching for disaster at the office is the only thing that will pry me out of my apartment on a Millenium Eve, what with the falling meteors, returning Messiahs and drunks. Should be more exciting than watching the falling ball on television or the back of the building next door, though, unless my neighbors have something planned that's loud and illegal. I gave my fireworks stash to the people who helped me move. Maybe they'll bring me the stories of how they exploded and popped, what buildings were burned, how many lost fingers and feet. How many children sent to their rest.

The change of millenium should have power and promise and portent. Somehow it doesn't, at least for now, but that's the old fart talking. For those marching on the Holy Land or Area 51, this will be the hot patootie of all hot patooties and their enthusiasm will make up for moi. Or maybe the young and the not quite that crazy will hold up the bargain for the rest of us old farts who have lost their enthusiasm for celebration and nonsense. (Have I really? Or is this just a way to fill paper? I wonder. Champagne now gives me heartburn, even the good stuff, but a real loss of celebration would be, um, not good.)