otel heiress and mysteriously celebrity-like person Paris Hilton ruined the lives of millions this week with the announcement that in two years' time, she will retire from whatever the hell it is she does in order to start a family.

Mothers were crying in the streets and children were dumping out bottles of Hilton's best-selling "Sexpot" children's bubble bath in protest upon hearing the news, and at least twelve people had to be talked down from ordering extra dessert and totally going off their fad diets after the news struck.

Internationally, distraught internet bootleg fans lamented the long nine-month-or-longer wait to see Hilton's childbirth video on the internet. Millions expressed a vague sense of malaise at the thought that whatever Hilton is famous for doing, she won't be doing it any more twenty-four months from now.

According to local teenagers, after taking the "oops, somebody stole my sex video and now I'm really famous, isn't it funny how that works" route to career relevance pioneered by Pamela Anderson and ex-hair band dongmeister Tommy Lee, Hilton raised being famous for nothing to an art form, starring in a show about her being famous for nothing on which she didn't do anything, then specializing in ironic movie appearances that capitalized on her status as not an actress.

"She was in that, that uh, Troy movie," remembered ocelot trainer Doug Finken. "She was that pussy little brother that the Hulk had to bail out. Jesus, man, everybody remembers that."

"No way dude," disagreed Finken's companion, Artie Dolch of White Plains, Arkansas. "She was on that show Real World: Rich Bitches with Lionel Richie. How could you forget that shit? That shit was on TV for like, ten years yo. I never watched it though."

Others remembered Hilton's legendary career differently.

"I know she's got a casino in Vegas, that's for sure," explained a confident Lucia Weisman of the Bronx. "Is she European or something?"

"Oh man, she was hot in that one Winger video," added Staten Island's Frank White. "That one where she was eating that big fucking hamburger, you remember that? That bar-be-cue sauce was hot as shit."

Confident in our grasp of what slobs off the street think, we decided to head straight to the source: Paris Hilton's publicist, Liz Dick.

"She's a brand name," explained Dick.

Ookay. So, a brand of what?

"What's hot this week? Cell phones? Paris Hilton is a brand of cell phones. This week. Check back with us again next week, though, since I hear denim panties are on the rise. On second thought, don't call us again."

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Finally, it's a New Year. I thought last year would never end, back when it was February. Then I forgot all about it until December. All of a sudden it's January. Did we have a January last year? I don't remember us having one, but it doesn't mean there wasn't.

A lot of good things happened last year—I got fired. That wasn't good for me, but someone must have enjoyed the hell out of it. I kept getting postcards rubbing it in all year long. Right up until November 9, I got one every week. It always read something like, "Enjoying homelessness?" and stuff like that. "Ha ha ha," to infinity. I wouldn't have thought you could fit so many "ha's" on a single postcard, but this guy did, consistently. Or it could have been a girl. I never figured out who sent them, because I didn't want to go through the trouble of looking up the return address. It's all the way over in the corner.

I did find a new job, after the commune fired me. I work in a traveling circus now, only they don't provide the transportation. They tell me where they're going to be and then I meet up with them later—they said it's better for everyone that way. The smell gets to them a bit. But at least I'm working. You know when you go to the circus, and you see those cute little monkeys wearing diapers? You ever wonder who puts the diapers on those things? You're reading him.

But I quit that, when they fired me for misappropriation of diapers. I say it's the diapers' faults for doubling so good as beer caddies. It doesn't matter. The whole "diapering monkeys" thing was getting a little stale anyway. They never wanted any of my creative input. The job was choking the life out of me. So was Bombo the Monkey.

All of that's history now. I rebirthed. Born again, for the ninth time. 2005 is going to be the year everything starts happening for me. You ever wake up, fresh and invigorated and feeling like the world was your oyster? Well, that's going to happen to me sometime this year, I can feel it. I'm going to make the most out of every day, starting next month. I still have to finish waxing the bikini area of that guy at the debt collection agency, as part of this out-of-court settlement we worked out. I know how fast I work, so I figure I've got a month left, tops. After that, it's all good fortune.

My first step is to get me a job that really utilizes my talents. After that, I got to figure out what my talents are. Once I do that, I'm going to dig up my dad and get that tattoo he left me in his will. He thinks just because he's dead I don't want it anymore? I've never turned down an inheritance in my life.

But I know you will be as lucky this year as I will be. Don't let that depress you, I mean it in a good way this time.

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I really should consider changing the titles of these columns. The cEC (commune Enthusiasts Club, for all of you acronym-watchers!) has had way more than six meetings as of the time of this writing. About 125, according to my notes. Of course, only about half of those were attended by someone other than myself, usually my friend and cEC Torch-Bearer Sandy. Around five have had more than ourselves present, including our latest members. So that's roundabout right then… six meetings. I'll just keep the chronology in order. All of my friends know how anal I am. Which has nothing to do with being gay, so don't send emails.

We had a disastrous time with the Easter parade float, don't even ask. Let's just say we won't be contributing to anymore community affairs for a while, by order of the Shanesly city council. I probably deserve all the blame, it was my idea to watch Animal House at the meeting before the parade. Some of the more inventive members may have taken it as some sort of secret message on what I expected from the parade. In fact, that's what they told me. But we did fish the Toyota out of Lake Murty and we've seen Sandy's brother driving it around town, so the damage couldn't have been as bad as he claimed. Heh… listen to me! I make it sound like we're a couple of Omar Bricks in the club. Nothing so dramatic, really. We've only wrecked one… maybe two cars, but that's a high count.

It did get us some free attention, on the front page of the Shanesly Observer, and you know what they say about bad press. Well, Sandy says it's ruined all chances of her (and me, but mostly her) having a normal life, but she was soaking wet with lake water, so you have to give her some room for a lousy mood. I think we'll get a few new members out of it. We've already got one, if you can count the deputy who's been sitting in on our meetings ever since. He says he's there out of genuine curiosity, while Sandy (Little Miss Negativity) says he's there because he thinks we're communist insurgents.

"Where would he get that idea?" I asked her when she said that.

"Duh," she said, which is about her favorite response.

It's true, we're called the commune Enthusiasts Club, and we've made up emblems and everything and stated our club name proudly when we entered the parade. But I don't know where you get communism out of the name commune Enthusiasts Club. That's just ignorance. I told Sandy that, and she said I can tell the cops how ignorant they are while they're beating the hell out of me with rubber hoses in the back room of their "Special Terrorist Interrogation Room." Little Miss Negativity indeed.

So that's a new member. I suppose, though, if I'm going to count him I should also count Ray's parole officer. So it's either two new members or we're still at the same number. Ray, Vera, Lucas, Homeless Gary, and Sandy, who asked again not to be counted. I'm an optimist, so I say two new members! That puts us at 8, and I think once the city ban on public activity is forgotten, we'll probably double that with all the shy commune enthusiasts coming out of the woodwork.

Boy, here I am prattling on about club business and I haven't even heaped any praise on the commune yet. I wanted to commend the editors and reporters for keeping their head together on all this "Pope's dead" business. I suspected even before I read the commune's coverage that it was all a sophisticated ruse to pump up the stagnant media and hide the world-weary Pope from the public, and I was proven right, as usual. The nice thing about being a commune fan is, sooner or later, you're always proven right.

See you all next time, commune Enthusiasts!

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