Y2K fears spoil the biggest party ever for a new millennium

By Laura Berman / The Detroit News

The millennium shimmered in the distance, an epochal moment sure to be remembered in a way that no New Year's Eve had been before. "I always thought that come 2000, I'd be doing something cool," recalls David LeVan, a Troy business owner who eagerly scanned travel brochures back then. That was, oh, three years ago. Seems like a century. Try to hearken back to those days in the waning '90s, when Oprah was an invincible TV goddess, Monica Lewinsky was intriguing only to a secret few and stocking up on bottled water for New Year's was a custom yet to be invented. Back then, the Detroit area was full of adventurous sorts, like LeVan, who scoured catalogues for exciting adventures, trying to live up to the challenge of a once-in-a-thousand-year event. Travel agents hawked expeditions to Antarctica, where penguins will see the millennium dawn first. We imagined we might go. That this might be the New Year's Eve that really mattered. Now, though, with only three weeks to go, grim reality has set in. In New York, a huge Celebration 2000 was abruptly scaled back from "Party of the Century" status, when concert-goers balked at ticket prices of $1,000 and up. In San Francisco, a hotel cancelled The Big Olive, an elaborate neon martini with giant swizzle stick, which stirred more controversy than joy. Troy's David LeVan, who once had big Y2K hopes and whose company has sold some millennial novelty items, at this point has "absolutely no plans" for the night. Even Martha Stewart, party planning deity, abruptly switched gears after her plan for a wintry trek up a Maine mountain proved impractical. Now she'll be entertaining cozily at her Maine home -- once owned by Henry Ford -- with overnight guests who'll watch the sun rise at the breakfast table, with Martha's muffins and coffee. Do you know anyone who's going anywhere? The Y2K spooks have inspired so much dread that any ambitious plans seem fraught with danger. A party? Too dangerous, given the hordes of imagined revelers. And flying anywhere is out of the question, unless you're a daredevil and don't have kids. Friends who thought they would be on a tropical island are now compulsively cocooning: The cozy evening is acquiring a haze of determined chic. Forget St. Barts or New Zealand or even Up North: Costco and Sam's Club -- favored spots for Y2K preparation runs -- are the pre-millennial versions of destination resorts. The new twist isn't parties at midnight: It's working. Employers are ushering in a kind of mournful millennium as they create a wave of Y2K widows and widowers: Thousands of employees will be working as never before, keeping watch all night long, just in case the computers crash or the sky falls. One of my News colleagues, drafted for duty on New Year's Eve, felt so guilty about dashing his wife's hopes for a memorable Millennial Eve that he bought her a wildly expensive necklace -- a dazzling little something she could open at midnight. Alone. So, stock up on jugs of water, cans of beans and toilet paper and hoof it over to your friend's -- the one who bought the big generator. Heck, it's going to be a night to remember.

-- Roland (nottelling@nowhere.com), December 09, 1999

Answers

So, stock up on jugs of water, cans of beans and toilet paper and hoof it over to your friend's .....the one who bought the big generator."

Wow, the words out, if you got a generator YOU are going to be babysitting alot of DGI/DWGI if the power goes out.

-- hamster (hamster@mycage.com), December 09, 1999.

Oh, I think even JQP is bright enough to figure that one out. :(

-- Servant (public_service@yahoo.com), December 10, 1999.

-- n (a@d.m), December 12, 1999.

-- k (a@a.m), December 12, 1999.