Hangin' With The Conspiracy Theorists.

I went to the most incredible party the other night. I hung out with all my new best friends, the conspiracy theorists.

The party was held in a former squat in the East Village, one of the six squats that was squatted so industriously, safely, and passionately that it won special legal squat status and was not senselessly destroyed by Giuliani's wrecking ball.

It was nice to see that squatters can live as well as rich people. The capacious former squat was lovingly appointed with a piano, a giant stained glass disc, an aquarium, pretty cabinetry, and more. The party was appointed with many intelligent, well-dressed, well-spoken apocalypse enthusiasts.

It's kind of racy to be enjoying cocktails and munchies in an attractive, well-lighted environment while catching snippets of possibly foreign-accented conversation, such as:

"Where you gonna be when the shit hits the fan? You got a plan?"

"Well, it's not like they haven't framed me and put me in Rikers before."

"I'm thinking about Canada, or Hungary. How can I get a passport?"

DVDs debunking 9/11 were traded. Emails were collected to facilitate arranging protests at city hall. The powers-that-be will be taken down, or we will exile ourselves somewhere. Heavy-duty.

I'm leery of hanging with conspiracy theorists not because I think they're full of it, but because I think if I learn what they know I will have no choice but to become one of them. And then I would have to commit to the overthrow of the government. And I'm just so busy already. Their parties are great, though. I'll keep going to those.