It’s at times like this, when you’ve been eagerly awaiting the apocalypse, as reliably (not in fact) predicted by a roughly bronze-age-tech-level Mesoamerican civilisation, and your watch ticks past the 11.21am mark which people completely arbitrarily decided was when the Maya thought it was all going to kick off, and it’s 11.22am, that really only Pearl Jam will do the trick. All together now: Woah woah I, ah-ah, I’m still alive.
(Incidentally, in my entirely lazy and frivolous Wikipedia glances around on the subject “researching” this blog post, I notice that the Mayan calendar worked on exactly 365-day years. That means it would end up falling out of step with the seasons by a day every four years; in the 900 years or so since the Maya collapse, it would therefore be out of step by 225 days. The Julian calendar which Europe rejected in the 16th century for being too inaccurate fell out of step by one day in every 128 years. But because the Maya calendar is all literally New World and exotic and ancient, people think it’s somehow worth listening to. God damn hippies, I tell you.)