PARTYING LIKE IT'S 1999

06/04

    Well, it seems like this weekend has been one big party, and amazingly, none of the hosting was done by me. First on Friday I had my prom at school, followed by a party at one of my friend's houses. Then, after sleeping away the afternoon, I awoke to attend <old lady> a Rave Dance Party<thunder clash> and was killed by a lethal dose of Ecstasy Drug</old lady>.  So I guess I won't be writing this column anymore.  Oh, wait.  Nobody died of a lethal overdose of ecstasy.  I guess Mel Lastman will cry himself to sleep over that one. Anyhow, moving right along...

This sort of party is livened up considerably by the announcement of tax cuts.  Excitement, as you can see, is largely a subjective thing.

WHAT DREAMS MAY COME... AND WOULD THEY STOP, PLEASE

The glorious American(and thus, by extension, Canadian) institution of Prom played itself out Friday, with all the trappings one would expect at such an event.  The bad music was particularly bad, as the DJ's idea of mixing songs consisted of easing one song into a mammoth blast of noise, which then eased off into the next song.  This wouldn't have been quite so unbearable had he actually played a decent song once in awhile, but his tastes leaned heavily in favour of the dregs of rap and similarly crappy music(Yes, I know some people like rap.  No, I don't care... I still think it sucks).  This dance was preceded by the popularity-driven awards contest, which was preceded by some sappy poetry lovingly ripped off and then dedicated to a guy at our school who died in an unfortunate run-in with epilepsy.  To their credit, they didn't once break down into tears and dash from the stage while reading the poem.  At any rate, the whole evening was nonetheless enjoyable, despite these minor irritations, which were compounded by the fact that I had to blow several hundred dollars on a suit I'm only ever likely to wear once or twice a year.  Shopping for said suit was the worst part- my mother took over the whole operation, blasted into this store and, in fine military form, proceeded to demand various items such as shoes, socks, and a shirt.  She then proceeded to mother me with blinding force, dispensing advice to me and wry witticisms about my allegedly disaster-prone self, as well as various other things, to the shopkeeper, who, she confided in me, was a Jewish no-goodnik who closed up his store on Jewish holidays, a flagrant violation of mall policy.  Can't we all just get along?