BY JAMES LILEKS
YOU WAKE up late, wondering why the alarm didn't go off. After all, you
programmed your alarm to dial up the Atomic Clock during the night and set
your alarm within a nanosecond of the proper time. Isn't technology
wonderful? Unfortunately, the connection crashed your alarm, and not only
does it just keep blinking 12:00-12:00-12:00, but all the DJs on the radio
stations are muttering nonsense syllables. You reboot the clock and head to
the shower.
Ah, the water's hot, the water pressure is strong. You have a good connection
this morning. Lucky you. In the middle of lathering your head, however, the
shower head goes dry, and the indicator reads: "BROKEN PIPE. TRY AGAIN LATER."
Well, it happens. You sit on the edge of the tub and turn the tap on and off
until the water starts again. It comes out slow and cold. Of course! This is
the time of day when everyone on the West Coast is hitting the showers. Slows
everything down.
You go to fetch the newspaper from the porch. It's thick today. But a couple
of pictures are missing from the front page, with little question-mark icons
where there should be a picture of a car wreck -- but hey, that happens. When
you turn the page, it takes one minute for the words to appear. While you
wait for the paper too become legible, turn on the TV and catch the news.
The TV has fancy plug-ins that enable it to display words, pictures and
video -- imagine that! There's a RealAudio WebCast on flooding conditions
in your neighborhood, so you pay particular attention. Unfortunately, too
many people are trying to watch the same program, so the audio's a little
sketchy.
" ... -lood -ater SKRCRR eaded toward SKRCHRR esidents advised to
evacuatSKRCHRCHC efore certain deat SKROSSSH orrible loss of ... "
Hmm. Doesn't sound good. Maybe you'd better catch a cab for work before the
disaster strikes. On the way outside, you remember that you have to mail a
letter; it absolutely has to have today's postmark. Hmmm. The mailman is
slumped on the ground unconscious. The mail slot is welded shut. A little
sign says, "Mail is currently unavailable; try again in 15 minutes."
The cab ride is speedy, but the driver keeps telling you that
your address is not valid. You keep repeating the address:
day.work.office/cubicle/mychair.html, NOT cubicle.mychair.
Eventually he gets it. Stupid driver. He tells you to go to
hell/sulferouspit.com.
After a productive morning working with pen and paper, it's time for lunch.
Perhaps you should try America Out to Lunch -- a fabulous restaurant with
food from every culture on earth, and AOL has an all-you-can-eat buffet for
$19.95. Why not give it a try? After all, you've already paid for it. They
sent you dozens of free menus until you signed up, and since they're charging
your credit card, you might as well have a bite.
There are 300,000 inside the cafe, and thousands waiting to go in. After you
bang on the door for 10 minutes, it creaks open. You give the maitre d' your
password. WELCOME! he says. YOU'VE GOT MAIL! (You still have the letter in
your hand; all the mailboxes are still welded shut.) You step up to the
buffet.
Just as you have loaded your plate with a delicious repast and are ready to
download the food into your stomach, a bouncer appears, grabs you by the back
of your jacket and hurls you outside. A handbill flutters beside you. "For
some reason,'' it says, ``you have been thrown out of the restaurant. If this
problem persists, please call Customer Relations, and listen to some nice
on-hold music for 40 minutes." Yet there's a man on the corner handing out
free menus to the restaurant. You're still hungry.
Later you read in the paper that the restaurant is adding tables as fast as
they can, and as long as you don't intend to eat for the next few weeks,
you'll be fine.
That night, you recount the day's frustrations, and wonder when enough things
will work enough times to make the day feel easy and seamless. Well, that's
the future, and the future's not available. That's what makes it the future.
All you can do now is dream. You close your eyes, initialize your id and
prepare to handshake with your subconscious.
Three hours later, you're still staring at the ceiling, waiting for dreams.
The busy signal is starting to sound like a lullaby.
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