Jonathan Quayle Higgins & the End of Days

Okay, so I've been mum for a long time now, courtesy of work, family vacation, and a complete and utter absence of ideas. But you have to give the people what they want and I've heard from not ONE but TWO people that they want me to start blogging again. TWO people. That's exactly twice the number of people who care what happened to the guy who played Higgins on Magnum P.I. You can't ignore your public...nor can you fake the funk on a nasty dunk, but that's a different blog.

En route to work this morning, I merged onto I-69 *snort, giggle* and felt my spine ice over. Something wasn't right. I flipped off BBC World Service News, wondering if I was having some weird episode of post-Independence Day jingoist rage (British news people are bossy). Didn't work...still felt weird. Then I looked around--and I mean actually, physically rotated my body to check beside and behind my moving car since the rearview mirror keeps falling off of my windshield--and I realized what was so strange. There were no other cars. Nada. 8:45am on what is [according to my crack 20-second bout of Internet research] the worst interchange in the city. The traffic in this 3-exit stretch is usually bad enough to commute my 20-minute drive to a 45-minute @#!-fest. But this morning? No one. In four lanes. And then it hit me. I knew why I was alone.

Armageddon.

Angels had just poured seven bowls of the wrath of God all over the 12th largest city in America and I ducked it, simply, by rethinking my shoe selection and going back inside to change. Today just said "kitten heels." And kitten heels, it seems, say "end-of-days repellent." I always knew, deep down, that my rabid insecurities would end up saving my life. When the rivers run red, I mused, I will be sitting, safe and sound, in a parking garage wondering if I made enough eye contact with the parking attendant or if he thought I was rude.

Feeling rather proud of myself--you know, for being one of the last people on Earth and all--I continued on to work. Sure, I noticed a proliferation of cars once I got on the parkway, but I didn't waver. Low self-esteem is surely our national disease. Perhaps all of these people thought twice about what they packed for lunch or whether or not a black cardigan plays in July. I'm by no means a religious woman but even I know that the meek shall inherit the Earth.

But as I neared my office, I grew increasingly unsettled. There were people EVERYWHERE. And many of them swaggered in such a way that you knew they never second-guessed anything (even when it might behoove them to do so...I'm talking to YOU, Acid Wash Wally). Why are they still here? What are all of these people doing in my post-Apocalyptic playground?

My heart beat in my throat as I trudged up the stairs. If the saintly folks who work down the hall from me aren't around, I thought, then my fate was sealed. Finding the south wing of the 4th floor full of little more than empty recycling bins and tumbleweeds, I felt faint. I hadn't missed Armageddon. I'd missed the Rapture. Kirk Cameron and all of his friends have been saved and here I sit. On the upside: from what I can tell from my XM, all of the on-air talent at E! was also left behind. At least I won't get lonely.

Pack Up, We're for Parting for Palau!

I'm a raging insomniac and late-night TV has taught me a thing or two. The most important lesson? We should all move the Republic of Palau. Their currency is way cooler than ours. Considering the sorry state of a certain administration in a certain country (*COUGH* ours), cool currency is reason enough to move to greener pastures.

I just learned that the latest coin released in Palau [whose primary export would appear to be crap to eBay, as I'm fairly sure they also make collectible plates there, too] is a coin emblazoned with a Corvette and headlights that actually light up. This coin LIGHTS UP. Take a moment to picture this. Take another moment to picture me trying to convince some poor Palauan clerk to let me lay for my tuna salad sandwich in Corvetties (well, what would YOU call them?). I envision myself demanding to see the manager, thinking aloud about the lousy exchange rate ("It was $39.95, but at least it's down to $19.95."), and threatening to take my collectible-coin-spending business to Liberia. I hope Liberia still takes five-color Pope John Paul II pennies.