What prom­i­nent Aus­tinites plan to do if the an­cient Mayans prove cor­rect.

No­table Aus­tinites share what they’ll do if all th­ese Mayan dooms­day the­o­ries are right.

Austin American-Statesman - - FRONT PAGE - By Dale Roe droe@states­man.com DEBO- RAH CAN­NON / AMER­I­CAN-STATES­MAN

It’s crunch time. The world ends Fri­day, Dec. 21, 2012, ac­cord­ing to the dooms­day the­o­rists. Although plan­e­tary col­li­sions and Nostradamus have been thrown into the mix, most of the hub­bub fo­cuses on the long­form Mayan cal­en­dar (the an­cient civ­i­liza­tion had three, which prob­a­bly gave them few ex­cuses for miss­ing par­ent- teacher con­fer­ences and so­cial events). That cal­en­dar be­gan on Aug. 11, 3114 B.C. and ends Dec. 21, 2012. Although schol­ars point out that the Mayans wrote about events well be­yond that date and ex­plain that the cal­en­dar’s end sim­ply marks the be­gin­ning of a new era, I’m not tak­ing any chances.

What have you been do­ing to pre­pare? I’ve been watch­ing all the shows that have been pil­ing up on my DVR. There’s been plenty of time for that, since I don’t have to worry about Christ­mas shop­ping.

Also, I’ve stopped work­ing

on all of the col­umns I had sched­uled to run af­ter this one. Sorry, edi­tors.

Over the past month or so, I’ve been col­lect­ing thoughts from no­table Aus­tinites on how they plan to fill the Earth’s fi­nal hours. En­joy read­ing them, then get to work on emp­ty­ing your own bucket list.

It’s the end of the world as the an­cients knew it, and Austin feels fine.

Sarah Bird — au­thor:

I guess I’d like to stand up on a surf­board and hike to the top of Machu Pic­chu. But, hon­estly, what I’d most like to do is clean up my of­fice which has be­come just an­other word for nothin’ left to lose.

Jenni Lee — Fox 7 news an­chor:

1. If the world is end­ing soon, then I would gorge my­self on Sal­va­tion pizza, Hill-Bert’s ham­burg­ers, and Iron Works smoked turkey wings un­til I throw up.

2. Re­peat step one.

3. Wax my legs. I’ve al­ways wanted shiny smooth legs like those ladies on re­al­ity shows.

4. Put on as many belts as pos­si­ble be­cause I have a bad habit of buy­ing belts and never wear­ing any of them. I have been wear­ing the same belts for 40 years. 5. Tell many, many lies. 6. Find my 8th grade art teacher who was mean to me and punch her third chin. She sent me to the prin­ci­pal’s of­fice. And I feel the need to tell her kiss­ing the pop­u­lar girls’ butts by buy­ing them shoes is creepy. Too much? Too bad, it’s the end of the world.

7. Make my tod­dler wear his brand new blue blazer I felt he needed. With his plaid bow tie.

Evan Smith — jour­nal­ist, KLRU tele­vi­sion host:

If the world is in­deed end­ing on Dec. 21, I will eat a steak and smoke a cig­a­rette on Dec. 20 — in fact, on ev­ery day be­tween now and then. I be­came a veg­e­tar­ian in Jan­uary 1984 and a non­smoker in March 1995, and I’ve been in a lousy mood ever since.

Elizabeth McQueen — singer/song­writer:

If I only had one day left in Austin, I would wake up and drive straight to the orig­i­nal Tamale House. I’d get two or­ders of Mi­gas, eat them all and then head home for a Mi­gasin­duced food coma nap.

I’d rouse my­self around noon and head to Barton Springs with my hus­band and kids. I’d lay on my blan­ket in the hot sun un­til the heat was too much to take, and then I’d plunge my­self in the freez­ing water, savoring the feel­ing of be­ing alive that only the mag­i­cal wa­ters of Barton Springs can give you.

I’d do this sev­eral times dur­ing the day. When I wasn’t swim­ming, I’d be watch­ing the divers dive off the div­ing board, the lit­tle kids bend­ing like twist ties, the big ones flip­ping and belly flop­ping. I might even jump off my­self, if only to en­cour­age my daugh­ters to join in the fun. We’d stay there un­til the sun went down, be­cause dusk at Barton Springs is as mag­i­cal as the Springs it­self.

For din­ner I’d try and gather all my friends and fam­ily in one place — maybe at Polvo’s? Def­i­nitely some­where with out­door seat­ing, chips and salsa. We’d gab un­til we could gab no more, and then all head over to the Bro­ken Spoke to see Dale Wat­son where I could dance one last dance with my hus­band in the honky tonk where we were mar­ried.

And when we drove home, I’d drink in my fa­vorite city for the last time. The neon and the funk mixed with all the new. The bus­tle of down­town and the empti­ness of my neigh­bor­hood.

And be­fore I went to bed I’d make sure I spent time with my fa­vorite peo­ple in the world, my hus­band and my two girls. I’d get as many hugs and kisses in as they could stand. And then, I’d go to sleep.

Matt Bear­den — co­me­dian, writer, KLBJ-FM ra­dio host:

The end of the world, huh? Bum­mer. Like, how much time are we talk­ing? Not that it mat­ters much, really.

Be­cause half of it will be spent ar­gu­ing with a 3-year-old — just try­ing to get her dressed, out the door and into a car seat.

Then it’s end­less cir­cles around the neigh­bor­hood as the wife and I go back and forth, back and forth, never de­cid­ing where to eat. Fi­nally: comet, ka­boom, and si­lence. The kind of si­lence nei­ther of us has heard since our sin­gle days. So ... sil­ver lin­ing, peo­ple! Sil­ver lin­ing.

The Lang­ford Mar­ket win­dow dis­play is part of the Hol­i­day Win­dow Walk com­pe­ti­tion.

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