I must confess that upon learning of Schell's decision to cancel the millennium festivities at the Space Needle, I thought big things were going to happen. The cancellation made it to the front pages of USA Today and The New York Times, and was even reported as a main story on BBC. Seattle had managed to return to the main stage less than a month after the WTO conference, and the mood of the city's citizens seemed threatening, charged, ready to override the mayor's ludicrous decision (really, Schell should not bother running for a second term). So why not another riot (riot redux!)? This time it would be staged in front of the Space Needle, and everyone, including myself, would be drunk and a little more bold and stupid with the cops. As this riot would have no political weight or direction, I figured it would be more violent, more passionate, more useless; a riot for the right to party.

At around 11:15 p.m., I leave a family party (the Marangwandas were hosting the Mudedes and the Chiros) on Capitol Hill with my wife (who was sober) and son (who was sleepy), and eagerly drive down to the Space Needle. But our hearts sink when we see that Denny is clear of any traffic, and only a few people have gathered in the vicinity of Seattle Center. Maybe we were early. So, to burn up some time, we decide to drive around -- we head toward the KeyArena, then make a right on Mercer, and begin driving toward the Seattle Opera House. Unmistakably, hopelessly, endlessly, we notice that people on foot, in cars, in wheelchairs are moving away from the Space Needle, rather than toward it. Things look bad.

We arrive at the Space Needle at around 11:25 p.m., and find only a handful of people standing across the street in a McDonald's parking lot. Damn! No self-respecting terrorist would waste dynamite on this lousy scene (and I suppose this was Mayor Schell's point); and no drunk, such as myself (and I was getting thirsty again) would waste the last hours of the world here, in what was no longer the symbolic middle of Seattle, but was now the middle of nowhere. So, after swinging by the red clock at Pike Place Market, we decide to head back up to Capitol Hill to visit a friend.

Minutes later, Eric Fredericksen is making me a martini. We are in his apartment building, on Sesame Street, as he once called it in this paper. My kid is wide awake and playing with another lively kid. My wife is working on a vodka and orange juice (her first drink of the night). And I am watching Northwest Cable News' coverage of the big public gathering in downtown Boise, Idaho (really, Schell should not bother running for a second term). Minutes before the big moment, we all walk outside, cross the street, and watch the end of the world from a safe distance.