Dear God

Y2K. Chicken Little's abound; the rapture is going to happen. People buy canned food in bulk and generators at a premium... Many forget to obtain gas to run the generators, figuring they'll run off the still-intact electric grid after Armageddon.

Me? I'm going to be at the epicenter of the global meltdown. I'm going to bite the dust at the LA Civic center millennium party. At the stroke of midnight, amongst 20,000 other glittering souls, I'm going to be swallowed up in a giant crack caused by a tidal wave of stone shattering earthquakes.

Or maybe... I'll just fall into a Japanese cartoon induced seizure from a laser light show. People around me will catch on, dropping to their backs, thus starting a dance fad worse than the Macarena. Either way, I'm going to have fun! By the way, my intensely devout Christian cousin, Saint C, is joining me.

Saint C, a remnant of Elizabethan England, is as sweet as sugar, pure as fresh snow, and as inexperienced as a student driver on the road of life. She's never been to a party larger than a tangy lemon in her mouth; she's never been to a party like this...

Stealthy piloting Ethel Mertz through Phoenix from Flagstaff, we arrive in the Santa Rosa Mountain range after two near death episodes, one bathroom stop, fifteen alien anal probes, six trucker honks, and 9,275 cacti. With Rod Sterling's blessing, we enter the Twilight Zone, traveling 500 miles in 4 hours, and arrive in the arid government reserve at pitch black midnight. The next day we make a pit stop to do some Tijuana barganing then head north to LA.

It's 11pm, we're in the car facing the gate. I pull on my flashy red acrylic pants and tight black shirt decorated with hand prints in various shades of metallic gold. A mushroom shaped puffy hat snug on my head holds bottles of water, stuffed animals, and a first aid kit. It was a large hat. Then, I start struggling with the bottle of reflective silver body paint.

With a booming *POP*, it explodes in my hand, and the iridescent powder suffocates the inside of the car. We hop out, billowing clouds of steel trailing our escape. The smoke clears, and we look at the aftermath. The red racer cockpit now looks like the Trimaxion Drone Ship from Flight of the Navigator; Saint C and I look like street performers imitating the Chicago Bean. Being the color of fine cutlery, we figure it's now a waste of time to continue getting ready, so we enter the civic center.

Inside, it's a feast for the senses. Club kids covered in candy, fire dancers covered in sweat, glow stickers covered in hallucinogens, and normal people covered in awe surround us. The music reverberates in our solar plexuses, and we immediately start running around, talking, dancing, and enjoying people with green platform shoes, torn white latex pants, cat eye contacts, and mardigras inspired handbags. New friends are made, dance partners substituted, and we approach midnight with a countdown in the center of the arena. 5...4...3...2...1... and there's an explosion of fireworks that rains sparkling embers down on the crowd. No end of the world, as everyone takes a deep breath, the music pumps back up, and the crowd goes tribal, lead by Saint C who had managed to crawl up on stage and appear on the mega screen.

Early the next morning, we start to head home, resting along the way. Arriving in Flagstaff, we get caught in a blizzard which hid our silver shame. At home, Saint C meekly says to my mom, "Auntie, I feel like I need to go pray."
Quizzically looking at her, my mom responds, "Oh? Why do you say that, C?"
"Well... I feel like I should repent."
"Ok. Did you do any drugs or drink alcohol?"
"No."
"Ok, and did you do anything bad?"
"No."
Looking at her with concern, "Then why do you feel like you need to pray, C?"
Head dropping as she shrugs and gazes at her feet, Saint C answers, "Because I had so much fun! I didn't know it was possible, but oh my god! I didn't know you could let go like that!"
Grabbing her hand, my mom gently consoles her, "You don't have to repent for having fun. You're entitled to some joy like that..." looking at her silver face, mom continues with a crooked nod, "just make sure you're the one opening the paint powder next time." A few days later, we stopped having soggy Kleenexes full of mercurial mucous.