Hate to Burst Your Bubble 001: So It's the Year 2010

I'm a huge sci-fi fan – always have been. Not hard-core – the closest I got to a “collection” was the first nine videotapes of Star Trek: The Next Generation (available from Columbia House for a killer deal at the start and a sucker-punch at the end). No limited-edition polyresin cast figurines of busty babes in thigh-high stilleto boots and scarred leather bomber jackets bearing enough armament to wipe the eastern seaboard off the map or life-size statues of Chewbacca or foil-print murals of Sylvester Stalone as a nude con-sicle.

Oh. Forgot to mention the books. All kinds of books – many books. I'm a bit on the obsessive side when it comes to books. I've had Sears catalogues from the 60s, Reader's Digest from the 40s and 50s, and thirty years' worth of National Geographic, in addition to an insane number of regular books. I don't “do” contemporary – not at all fond of it. I figure if I want contemporary drama and horror, I'll watch the news. If I want contemporary romance, I'll read People Magazine or US. Since I don't, I don't.

I did have a very impressive collection of romance – futuristic and historical; sword and sorcery (aka “S&S”); and science fiction. All the classic sci-fi authors: Heinlein, Clarke, Asimov, yadda. I would read about the dry red dust of Mars and the toxic gas oceans of Jupiter and the ice caves of Pluto and I couldn't wait until the future when we'd have flying cars and sonic showers and robot housekeepers and vacation properties in Dyson Spheres orbiting just off Tau Ceti and accessible by time-space-warping hyperdrive units that could get us there before we left. Medical appointments would be smoothly efficient and streamlined: a scanner would note our arrival, register vital signs and any symptoms, and have our files and any recommendations ready for the doctor who would be greeting us within moments of our appointments.

Of course, I accepted that there was an equally good chance that we'd end up wearing crudely-tanned furs while we guarded our post-apocalyptic bunkers with Mad Max firepower, grew freaky-deaky food, talked to animals via radiation-enhanced mutant abilities, and chewed white willow bark to ease minor aches and pains such as broken legs and tooth extractions.

Well, it's 2010.

While nuclear blackout isn't darkening the sky overhead, neither is aerial vehicular traffic. It's February, 2010, and I still have to pay the bill for my nuclear- and coal-generated hydro; my housekeeper is a manual one that came with a matching dustpan; my appointment was at one and it's now 3:30 because my doctor is in the next town picking his kid up from school and grabbing groceries on the way back; and the only way my coprophagous dog talks to me is by knocking me down or shoving his nose up my crotch.