2022? How is this even possible? This number is the purview of pulpy paperback science fiction, sold on a rotating rack by the front door of the corner drugstore including, at the very least, monorails and jetpacks, and maybe even teleportation without having to wriggle our little noses like the beautiful Samantha Stephens. This is the stuff of metropolises untouched by sunlight, shrouded by dark clouds, anarchy in potholed streets, burned-out husks of abandoned cars, and the like. This isn’t a real year in which real people live real lives. This is far-fetched teenaged fantasy, fomented by imagination, isn’t it?
Yet here we are, with none of those things, except maybe an occasional monorail that’s most likely a tourist trap, not a viable commuter option for residents, although I don’t even know if or where that exists. Most people aren’t even responsible enough for the responsibility of jetpacks or the ease of teleportation. They can barely walk on the sidewalk without disobeying the most common form of peripatetic decency. They can’t move aside to give passage to others, so what’s to keep these miscreants from purposely colliding midair just because they can?
Give me 1975, please. Take me the fuck away.