MY EDITOR IS A VERY NICE PERSON. MY EDITOR IS ALSO UN-fathomably cruel. A while back, she told me that this magazine would be celebrating its ninetieth birthday this autumn and, as part of the celebration, she would like me to write about what things might be like ninety years from now. Hello there, 2113. What’s up?
She had to be kidding.
I couldn’t write with any authority about what I think will happen next week, let alone 4,680 weeks from By this time next year, we might be preparing to reelect a vulgar talking yam, back this time with a vengeance. Hell, I told her, just buy a Ouija board. Cut up a goat on a sacred rock. Rent a crystal ball from some Deadhead. All I know for certain about the year 2113 is that I won’t be around to see whatever happens. I’m not entirely sure I’m disappointed about that.
