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I was raised on The Jetsons. I was promised flying cars, robot house cleaners, and jetpacks.

As a splinter GenX/Boomer [1], the color of sky in my youth was that of a television, tuned to a dead channel. The streets of LA were wet, and it rained and the buildings rotted and dripped.

I didn’t get any of that in this drought-stricken, smoky, orange-skied pandemic world.

The cars sound like Jetsons cars. They do figuratively fly down the streets, almost impossible to hear. But don’t actually fly.

The Camaros and Challengers and Mustangs sound like American Graffiti [2].

It remains true in all ages and all dystopias that you know the score, pal. You’re either cop, or little people.


[1] Douglas Coupland is my age. I don’t feel like a boomer [2]. I don’t care what demographers say about the year I was born. Curves don’t linearly determine economics or sociology (haha Laff). I didn’t get a pension, low house prices, a lifetime job, or a summer of love. I did get punk, grunge, alt-country, AIDS, Reagan, a 401k, antibiotic-resistant STDs, neoliberalism, end-stage capitalism, worthless startup stock options, OWS, and cheap college tuition. The collateralized tranche meltdown gave me a house and a dog and an old sports car.
[2] OK, boomer.