Post-Futurism

March 17, 2005

That date. It looks like science fiction. March 17, 2005. So cold. So inhuman. Might as well be a post-nuclear date, like an After Man Destroyed the Skies kind of cheeriness. Or to be more specific and less referential, here we are, and it's still winter, but it might as well be spring (thanks, Frank!), which makes it seem colder and -- dare I say it? -- crueler still. Still. Then 17. A prime number. Nothing cuddly about prime numbers. Hired momentum killers who know no parents, know no mercy, know no allegiance to nothing. One notion indivisible. Murderers of time.

And then there's the clincher: 2005. OK, you out there reading this may think dates that terminate in zero-anything are normal, but if you're old enough to remember laughter (does anyone remember laughter?) or Rock Rock Rock 'n' Roll Radio or Seattle before grunge or a time before mommies just HAD to drive SUVs because they're so much safer for the family, then you must remember wondering what the next century would be like. Scuse me, the next millennium. You must remember this.

Yes, yes, yes ... I fully realize that the time for millennial lamentations has come and gone, and that it all happened about five mindblowing years ago, but this is my blog and I'll ramble on about what I want. If you think this is just so much crying over spilt years, go get your own blog. Blogger.com. Incredible how easy it is. Three minutes to the global launch of K-EGO, your very own tower of trash power blogcasting across the universe in 5/4 time. Gosh, the future holds so much in store! One day, maybe March 17, 2005, we'll all control the media! No more corporate giants bestriding the media landscape. No more concentration of power. No more Mr. Man to tell you what to think and where to go and how to eat. Just social networking services and podcasting and documentary films to show everybody what's happening down on the street! It's a Youthquake, baby! Straight outta Cupertino via Cambridge via Oceania!

It's ... March 17, 2005.

Yours Very Truly,
Winston Smith