Apocalypso

When it comes, we'll be listening to this ("apocalypso" suggested by Neil). Or we'll be harvesting our black-eyed peas in the high desert, as my pal Michael will be doing. Or we'll be sitting with a stiff porter and blogging like an idiot against the forces that brought it upon us. Or we'll be smoking lots of cigarettes and feeling no guilt for the first time. Or a scream comes across the sky as it did for me and several million others on 9-11, but didn't for people in the previously New York- and DC-hating patriot's red state. Or we'll just have happened to be reading Dante and have made it to Canto XXVIII. Or we'll be in a car with Virginia license plates honking our horn at a stoplight. Or holed up in a cave like Dick and George (oh, the irony!). Or perhaps we'll have epiphanous Total Awareness of the Homeland. Or perhaps we'll have had the opportunity to be reading from our bible, "Time is but the stream I go a-fishing in. I drink at it; but while I drink I see the sandy bottom and detect how shallow it is. Its thin current slides away, but eternity remains. I would drink deeper; fish in the sky, whose bottom is pebbly with stars. I cannot count one. I know not the first letter of the alphabet. I have always been regretting that I was not as wise as the day I was born." (Thoreau, Walden).