An Invitation No party is complete without the Big Guy. by ASHLEY FANTZ Dear Jesus, My roommate and I request the honor of Your Presence at our party, All Night Armageddon, on the 31st of December in the year of, well, You — Nineteen Hundred and Ninety-Nine. We know that the Memphis post office will take one look at the mailing address and say we’ve waited far too late to get this to You. So we decided to publish it in this rag because we know that You and God have been reading the Flyer since we covered the ice storm of 1994. With only one week before New Year’s Eve, we are certainly guilty as sin for not organizing an end-of-the-world party earlier. The clues have certainly been there. I’m not just talking about the Y2K fanatics and their little warnings about banking glitches, the loss of electric power, and — as you know — religious divinations. No, evidence that the end is nigh has been apparent for quite some time. Clearly, something was up when that Celestine Prophecy book sold so many copies and Madonna stopped grinding and started chanting. Then there was the popularity of Cats, Kenny G, Red Lobster, and now Pokémon. Not to mention famine, natural disasters, disease, dictators (who don’t even allow their best baseball players to play in America), poverty, and stone-washed jeans. We are a doomed breed. Although my roommate and I detest theme parties, we’re making an exception with All Night Armageddon. Of course, like any reasonable American, we’ve taken our entire life savings out of First Tennessee and stashed it under our mattresses, but not before we spent half of it on four bottles of liquor from which we’ll serve Kamikazes, Bloody Marys, Molotov cocktails, and Atomic Bombs. We were hoping you could bring the wine. When we told Midtown Video that You might come, they suggested we check out Jesus Christ Superstar and The Last Temptation of Christ. But don’t worry, we rejected those and rented Armageddon, Year of the Comet, and Terminator. Dogma isn’t out in video yet, but we wouldn’t make You sit through that anyway. As for music, You’ll be pleased to know we’ve asked 98 degrees to perform in the hopes of luring the devil (Maurice Starr) from his lair. We really think it would top the night if you two could thumb wrestle or at least play a board game together. Here’s the bonus — one of the guys in 98 degrees is dating Britney Spears and he’ll bring her — no, wait — one of the guys in N’Sync is dating her — or is it Backstreet Boys? At any rate, we could have all the hottest candied sissies of pop music in our living room, so when the sky falls and the ground splits and swallows them, we can watch. With that in mind, we’ve also invited Pat Buchanan, the guy who invented cell phones, and Jesse Ventura. If you’re still debating about whether to come to All Night Armageddon, know that we are not hosts who serve cheap food. Since December 31st will mark everyone’s last supper, we plan to offer much more than little weenies, crackers, and Cheez Whiz. (Incidentally, my roommate thinks Cheez Whiz will survive the Millennium. I’m not so sure, though I’d put money on Joe Birch’s hair, the cockroaches at 201 Poplar, and at least one of the Fords.) Anyway, back to the food. … My roommate and I stopped paying MLGW bills several months ago so we could hire Emeril to cater the party. Yes, that’s right, Emeril, the amazingly irritating New Orleans chef who’s on the Food Channel at least 23 hours a day. What better place for him to make his last patty melt than at our soiree? And who wouldn’t enjoy watching him dodge falling asteroids? Attire is an important issue at most parties, but we thought we’d make an exception since, well, it won’t really matter anyway come midnight. So we’re just telling everyone to dress comfortably, which will make it easier to duck for cover. I would suggest though that you wear socks with your sandals because it’s cold in Memphis now. And don’t worry about standing out. If my hippie friend Sam who works at Wild Oats shows up, everyone will think you’re with him. Well, we hope we’ve been convincing enough. And please don’t think we’re trying to curry favor to get an invite to Heaven or that You might arrange another ark thing and save us. We just want you to drop by. It’s a sentimental time for all of us. We’re going to miss the world. I won’t tell you how much it burns me to know all those volunteer hours I put in during Save the Earth Day in college were entirely futile — except, of course, for the free T-shirt. Ashley. P.S. Please invite your Dad for us!