New York, NY - Dec. 31, 11:59 p.m.: Every New Year's Eve we get the cult back together. It's a right, jolly time. We drink, make fun of all the other, lamer cults (That's right Scientology, I'm looking at you. Suck it Travolta!), and decide who gets to be Archon for the next year. Per usual, we took the big "We didn't commit mass suicide THIS year" photo at the stroke of midnight. (From top left going clockwise: AK-47: owner of two pairs of white pants, one pair of clean underwear; RaKim: the strongest of the lot; Janeto Totti: nephew to footballer Francisco, wearing a helmet to ward off evil thoughts; Mike: on a three-day bender, reeking of ferments and evil thoughts; MC Jesse James: hiding because he's in a baffrobe which is not even cool in cults; Julie: wondering if she could make the White Stripes a trio; Jess: laughing at AK-47's trousers; Me: just being me)