Let's play that game where we pretend it's the end of the universe. First, we'll be astronauts--I mean, this is the prototype apocalypse, no one's going for the Pulitzer here--and we have to slam our impossibly clean, white, American rocket into the heart of some amazingly badass ice comet that's hurtling directly towards the President's face. When the science of that seems shaky, we'll just go whole hog and invent an evil genius or two, place said evil genius(es) in an evil mountaintop lair and grab our nuclear harpoon guns for our race across the nation to stop him (her, them). We'll be super-computer-wielding underdogs who manage to quash the second (first?) coming of Y2k through the goddamned internet--don't worry, there will a completely inexplicable 3-D hologram fight scene in the middle, and it will be totally epic. We'll gas zombies, and stop missiles with telepathy alone, and unzip the double helix of a race of murderous super-evolved man-monsters (it will involve lasers). We'll save the world from an airborne AIDS strand, and be fed grapes and fantastic drugs by acres (I mean ACRES) of naked French women for our trouble. Or else, we will sit on my living room floor and hold hands; or in reality, I will sit here on this floor alone and dream all this, because what else is there to do when you are not in love?
photo is by Dennis Darzacq
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