Futurists and self-proclaimed prophets love, or rather loved, the year 2000.
It was to be the year of the great utopian upheaval: our robot butlers were to appear at our bedside on January 1st '00, with a mug of Tang in one claw and the instruction manual to our jet pack in the other. Spandex spacesuits were to be the new "Business Casual" as we all hopped on a Pan-Am flight to the Moon.
Or, if you were a fan of the doomsday folks, it was to be the day when Hell itself opened up at 12:01 a.m., Eastern time (11:01 pm Central) and hordes of demons and devils tormented us. The Y2K bug was their scout, and it was to lay waste to our foolish technology. We were going to be drug into the new -and the last- century by flying demons (the fatter ones would wear jet packs, of course). We'd be forced to subside on Hot Pockets and Tang as a Nuclear winter laid waste our once-great nation.
Whew, dodged a bullet there, eh?
Perhaps, dear reader, I should explain myself. The impetus for this journal began a few weeks ago at a doctor's office. I picked up a copy of Wired, and casually thumbed through its pages. I smirked at the article promising more people reading electronic books by the end of the decade. Some politician was "very concerned" with the rampant pornography of the 'Net and the violence of video games causing our precious youth to turn into moral-less monsters. A commentator called on Hollywood and the critics to recognize the artistic legitimacy of video games. And ads for hovercrafts padded the bag of the magazine.
If you are especially clever, then you have figured out the twist: This copy of "Wired" was the September 1999 issue.
The more things change...
And so here we are, well into the fabled 21st Century, and neither utopia nor Armageddon look especially likely. At least, not this week.
So please, dear Reader, come along with me on my magical and epic journey: my own life, beyond the year 1999!
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