It’s the end of the world as usual

Oct. 21, 1981

Pauly calls me to tell me the polar ice caps are melting

This is at 3 a.m.

He claims he has evidence that the sea levels are rising and we might drown if don’t head for higher ground.

“That’s nice,” I tell him and yawn.

All I want to do is go back to sleep.

But I know just how persistent Pauly can be, a regular bloodhound when locked onto a scent about global warming. He won’t stop pestering me unless I hear him out.

This time, it’s the polar ice caps; sometimes he goes on about how evil the president is or about some other natural disaster destined to doom us.

For Pauly, all this gloom is actually good news.

Where as normal people take up sensible hobbies such as collecting postage stamps, Paul contemplates all the possible world ending disasters.

He actually thinks we can survive it.

He’s not like those deluded other green people who egotistically believe they can save the planet by recycling or banning everything everybody else enjoys, for Pauly, plastic is not evil, but a means to an end.

He’s made plans for us to buy land somewhere high enough so that we can all enjoy beach front property when the oceans rise, land upon which we can rebuild civilization  -- his way.

Pauly demands that we give him a percentage of our weekly wages for this noble cause.

Hank dutifully complies; Garrick tells Pauly to get a job.

This, of course, means Garrick will have no place in Pauly’s new world order when the end does come.

Pauly always calls me at odd these odd hours, my phone jangling me awake with each report of an earthquake in Ecuador or an outbreak of flu in Peru.

When CNN recently reported a possible asteroid strike, Pauly nearly poked his eye out, peering up at the skies via telescope, calling me with hourly reports about the asteroid’s progress.

He actually sounded disappointed when the asteroid missed.

I’m always tempted to turn off my telephone.

I’ve even debated whether or not to tell Pauly not to call.

But somewhere in the back of my head, stirring among the unending echoes of media’s lust for disaster, I wonder – what the hell I will do if Pauly turns out to be right.