My guess is that Earth after Judgment Day will look a lot like Seattle on New Year's Eve, 1999 -- a city out of the loop, a metropolis that chickened out on its invitation to the Big Party.
Watching the millennial reports on TV -- from Paris, New York, London, Athens, Berlin -- the term "party of a lifetime" crystallized into fact as the world got down. The Eiffel Tower exploded into colors. London boasted its biggest fireworks display ever (at least since the Nazis bombed the crap out of them in WWII). Times Square was packed with more than a million people. And Seattle? It blew a few sparklers off the Space Needle (again) and nobody was even there to watch.
In short, our city sucked -- and sucked loudly -- at the dawn of the new millennium. The entire evening was a debacle, symbolized perfectly by a visit to the posh, downtown Four Seasons Hotel. At this premier hotel, the rich gathered for two private parties and a $400-a-person "public" affair. What was the scene at these galas, these millennial "blowouts" thrown by the wealthy citizens who will undoubtedly fashion at least some part of our lives for the next century? Were they snorting cocaine and smoking rolled up $100 bills? No. They were sitting quietly in expensive rooms, eating expensive meals, drinking expensive drinks, dressed in expensive suits and evening gowns, and doing... well... pretty much nothing. They sat up straight in their chairs, surrounded by ribbons and balloons, and chatted and conversed richly. A Glenn Miller-type orchestra played tasteful tunes and a small group of rebels even got up to dance, but that was it. Powdered wigs would have felt right at home. Then, presumably, at midnight (I was ushered out before then by the hotel's P.R. flack) they collectively went "Whoo hoo!" and checked to make sure their cell phones were working.
It may as well have been New Year's Eve, 1993.
