Despite the cliché, a year really does go by in the blink of a brown eye. In no time flat the world does that unholy rotation and all the things that were supposed to get done are replaced by things that actually got done so now the things that never got done lay in the land of “eventually”. Which is right up the road from “I’ll get to it when my show is over.” It really doesn’t matter because things that need to get done don’t care what year it is and they usually get done before catastrophe. Usually.
2010. Really? I remember seeing the sequel to 2001: A Space Odyssey and it was called “2010” and it seemed like a thousand years in the future back then. The film essentially was crap despite starring Roy Scheider. He was the guy from grimy ’70’s cop movies and Jaws, but he’ll always be the tortured soul who piloted Blue Thunder to me. Airwolf was Abbott and Costello while Blue Thunder was Gregory Peck in Twelve O’Clock High.
This decade is gone and at the end of every decade it never fails: lists, remembrances, milestones and minutiae are all collected and compared and then eventually forgotten. Twenty-Ten and how we treat each other as people will likely be the same as it was in at the turn of the century. Microchips and cyber-suicides not withholding, I’m curious if my idealism will come to fruition before the 2050. I can’t imagine how telephones, cameras, cars and jobs will all fit inside of pockets or earholes. How every task we perform will be pushed through a gadget before we even dream of actually talking to someone face to face. God forbid we experience subtle sarcasm or satire, conversational nuances that are all but lost when digitized. Waitaminute. Ain’t all these words just clicks being pounded through an impulsive keyboard into some binary matrix until it reaches the screens of the four people reading this? (god bless every one of you.)
If the technological pinnacle of our civilization is defined by how many friends we have on Facebook or how many conversations we can simultaneously text while sitting alone in public, then I’m Buck fucking Rogers.
2009 has slipped into a canon of uninspired ventures, of quiet suffering for survival from paycheck to the next. From one job/relationship/religion/bar to the next. I’m told that the future holds the answers, the rewards and the reasons of our being so I’m banking on the new year to be either leathery and dystopian or a 365 day carnivorous revel-fest.