Apocalypse Now?

Written by Shelby Moore and Craig Outhier Category: Lifestyle Issue: December 2012
Group Free

According to doomsayers, the end of the Mayan calendar on 12-21-12 spells oblivion for us all. Make a day of it.

Packed your bags and gassed up the minivan? Stocked your mountain compound with cans of tomato soup and crates of dehydrated milk? Neither have we. Nobody knows what December 21 will bring – zombies? tornados of fire? a new Creed album? – but one thing is certain: Your Mayan day of reckoning doesn’t have to be all survival prep. You gotta live a little, too. Consider this your end-of-days planner for the eve of the maybe-apocalypse.

8 a.m. Skydiving/hot air ballooning. Get up early and enjoy your last sunrise in style – by chucking yourself out of an airplane or sipping champagne after soaring a mile above the ground. (Bonus end-of-days points if you do either in the nude.) Call the folks at Apex Balloons before radiation and harsh, apocalyptic winds make such fancies an impossibility. 602-903-7246, phoenixballoonrides.com

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10 a.m. Bucket-list breakfast. That 200-mph plummet to the Earth has made you hungry. Grab a seat at Over Easy.  Order the waffle dogs ($8.50) – waffle-battered, deep-fried pork sausages topped with powdered sugar. Because apocalypse trumps atherosclerosis. 4730 E. Indian School Rd., Phoenix, 602-468-3447; 9375 E. Bell Rd., Scottsdale, 480-270-3447, eatatovereasy.com

11 a.m. Survival prep. Prevention-oriented person that you are, you ordered that survival kit – the water purifier ($94), survival handbook ($12), 275 instant dinners ($150) – from 2012supplies.com weeks ago. Load it into the Suburban next to the tomato soup.

Noon. Super-car rental. A little midday adrenaline rush is in order – let’s see how 700 horses soothe your apocalypse-frayed nerves. A Maserati GranTurismo from Global Exotic Car Rentals will run you a measly $695 per day. That’s pocket change when there’s no tomorrow, so we say go for the gold – a gold Lamborghini Gallardo Spyder, that is ($1,295 per day). 811 N. Scottsdale Rd., Scottsdale, 480-719-7377, globalexoticcarrentals.com

2 p.m.-6 p.m. Get inked. You’re not the tattoo type. Too garish. Too permanent. But with just 10 hours until the end of existence as we know it, what is permanence anyway? Head to The Golden Rule Tattoo and get that giant, Earth-swallowing serpent you dreamed about, or some inscrutable Confucian proverb. Across your forehead. 120 E. Roosevelt St., Phoenix,  602-374-7533,

7 p.m. Be a rock star. Sorry, bub – your rock-star-window closed when you decided not to drop out of college in ’85. But you can taste the gloriously vice-ridden lifestyle that might have been by performing in front of a live band at the Sail Inn’s Thursday-only “rockaroke” night – which happens to fall on the Mayan apocalypse eve. Surely, it’s a sign – a sign to sing “Purple Rain.” 26 S. Farmer Ave., Tempe,
480-966-9565, thesailinn.com

8 p.m. Last supper. Opt for thematically-appropriate and delicious Central American cuisine at Guanaquito in Phoenix. Nosh on pork-packed pupusa just like the housemarms of Tikal used to make. 1434 E. McDowell Rd.,
Phoenix, 602-257-9053

10 p.m. Last buzz. The night is young and you’re not getting any older. Drive the Lambo to Angels Trumpet Ale House and earn points with the angels. Go crazy. Order that barley wine you had your eye on.  810 N. Second St., Phoenix, 602-252-2630, angelstrumpetalehouse.com

11:59 p.m. Grab a seat. The end is nigh, so you might as well have a nice view. Climb to the top of Piestewa Peak and count down the seconds until the apocalypse plays out. Bonus: If space aliens return to the site of a purported UFO crash in October 1947 near the peak, you might be able to score a lift.

No Apocalypse: Egad. No fireworks? No giant serpent, fleet of asteroids, or tidal wave of fire? Pop some aspirin and write an apology email to your friends. Return the Lamborghini. Have tattoo removed.

Apocalypse: Curse those New Age prognosticators and their spot-on accuracy! Don your Mad Max-style post-holocaust shoulder pads and get ready to defend your stash of irradiated chicken pasta meals from the ravenous hoards. Catch up on your reading.