Saturday, January 1 2000
Okay, I'm Rip Van Winkle and I've awaken from my slumber to find it's the year 2000, so where are the rocket cars and jet packs? I'd like to take the Greyhound to the Moon, and I'm wondering how far I have to walk until I get to the space port. It's always amusing to take note of what things we have in the future managed to slip past the predictive power of the old futurists. No one back in the 60s thought people cared enough about information for there ever to be a World Wide Web.
My new years was mostly taken up with more boring old computer work as I struggled to bring my parents into the new millenium.
Kim has been amazingly tolerant as my parents have gradually scope-creeped my visit into a multi-faceted de-entropization of their lives. She's been spending a lot of time with my brother Don, going on long walks in the woods with him, patiently listening as he launched into successive lectures about Stalinism, Dinosaurs, Hitler, insect reproduction, and other assorted odd topics that he follows closely.
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