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Tara's Advice

Bedtime for Bozo

Dear Tara,
My friends always rag on me. Why can't they understand that some people like going to bed by 10? Why must I be continually forced by people who supposedly care about me to trail after them from restaurant to nightclub to bar 1 and bar 2 and bar 3? And finally, of course, the EndUp. I'm sorry, but I just don't like crowds of people I don't know, or drinking or dancing in public. For millennia, our ancestors used to pack it in the moment the sun went down, so why must I be made to feel like a freak just because I can't rock on and on till the break of dawn? It doesn't seem fair. Does it?
Sincerely, Party People, Go Away

Dear Party,
You sound like a major zzz to me, but who am I to be critical? I think you need to seriously consider the possibility that your jet-set-a-go-go friends might not be human. Starting when I was around 8 years old, I used to do a lot of consulting work for SETI, the Search for Extra-Terrestrial Intelligence. I was a child prodigy, kind of like Jodie Foster in Contact, but, you know, less pathetic. Forget all you think you know about "gray" aliens, and the so-called men in black, and let me clue you in to what's really going on.

Ever since Karen Carpenter's Valium-induced "Calling Occupants of Interplanetary Craft" came out, sentient beings the universe over have been keeping a watchful eye on our "big blue marble." All the "Welcome, Space Friends" sentiments of rave culture finally convinced E.T.s to come on down and pay earth's discotheques a little visit. Your feelings of fatigue and anemia are not just in your head. You are not being paranoid. You are in fact being leeched by soul-sucking squid-faced Venusians every time your neurons are subjected to another remix of "Ray of Light" or "Beautiful Stranger." Protect yourself at all costs, though of course resistance is futile. The Y2K bug engineered by Martha Stewart might be able to unplug the flashing lights and the blockrockin' beats at some clubs, but never all of them. Homo sapiens is about to flap and flounder like fish out of water, on the dance floors of the world. Two thousand zero zero party over--it's out of time.
Sorry, Tara


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From the September 13, 1999 issue of the Metropolitan.

Copyright © Metro Publishing Inc. Maintained by Boulevards New Media.




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