The Older, newly arranged. Brandon Joyce.

Hurrah, or should I say, Hoorah— my meticulously-crafted Millennium Bash came off splendidly, if I might say so myself. I returned early to my brother’s empty apartment, eager to assume the posture of a Lonely-Heart and Broken-Spirit. Timing was absolutely essential. I needed to be comatose well before the stroke of Midnight. With an armful of newly-acquired skin-flicks, measures were taken to purge the body of any distracting thoughts and desires. I was anticipating unprecedented decibel levels and choked down three shots of generic absinthe-flavored cough syrup, just to be sure. I flipped the television set to a syndicated Ricki Lake episode which was perfectly oblivious to the Dawning of the New Millennium— “Just because he’s a Drag-queen doesn’t mean he has to dress like a tramp!” I then rolled over, and fell fast asleep.
The anticlimax was complete and lyrically blasphemous, the only appropriate celebration short of suicide, especially since I didn’t miss “anything of interest”— looting, burning children, merciless Horsemen, plummeting stocks and elevators, or Times Square reduced to rubble and memories. I didn’t intend this as a gesture of protest— I really enjoyed the hype and hysterics that this very-special New Years generated. It was inverted History, a date without event, that imploded under the weight of its own significance, leaving nothing behind. True, part of me still longs for life in post-apocalyptic America, with talking dogs, androids, cannibalism– those sort of things– but I guess global solidarity will have to do. As the television droned, I slept tight, assured that, whatever the clocks and calendars tell us, (please read in the booming tone of world-conquest):


Post a comment