Too much to ask for?
May. 26th, 2004 09:33 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
davywavyWe're fortunate today that Gypsy Rose David has returned from trafficing girls from Romania to give us all another glimpse into the future. Now, I know she looked at your futures - but what of mine? What does our peregrinating prognosticator have to say that the next fifty or hundred years hold in store for me?
I awoke to the theme from “Knight Rider”, playing on a mobile phone. A few bars into the opening fanfare, the little notes stopped short, to be repeated, a second later, from the beginning. And repeated again. And again.
"That was the 'Theme from “Knight Rider”'," said a genial voice. "And I'm 3Henry Kelly bringing you Classic Ringtones, an hour of the most relaxing ringtones of yesteryear. Thank you for joining us. Now next on the line I think we have ... Irene, from Bournemouth, is it? Hello, Irene!"
"Hello, 3Henry!" came the cheery reply.
"Irene, do you have a favourite ringtone you want to share with us this morning?"
"Yes, I do."
"And what's your choice of Classic Ringtone?"
"Well, 3Henry, I have to admit I'm a bit embarrassed by your question! You see it's always been my favourite ringtone, but I've never known what it's called."
"Never mind! Let's see if I can help you out. Can you hum it for us?"
A giggle. "I'll try," said Irene. A pause. "Er ... dee-deedle dee-deedle dee-deedle dee -"
"Ah, yes. The Bach Suite No. 2 for Flute and Strings in B Minor. That's a lovely little ringtone, isn't it? It's one of my all-time favourites too. Now may I ask, Irene, does that ringtone have any particular significance for you?"
"Yes, you're right, 3Henry, it does. It was the very first ringtone I had, before I was married. My husband, who was my boyfriend then, used to have to commute on the train. So naturally he was on the phone to me all the time. And whenever I hear that ringtone, it still takes me back."
"What a lovely story. For anyone just joining us, this is 3Henry Kelly bringing you Classic Ringtones, an hour of the most relaxing ringtones of yesteryear. I've just been speaking to Irene from Bournemouth. And for you now, Irene, here
is the Bach Suite No. 2 for Flute and Strings in B Minor."
“Dee-deedle dee-deedle dee-deedle dee”
I lay in a partial doze, letting the soothing strains of Classic Ringtones lull me gently awake. I didn't really want to get up, but the smart bed had sensed the change in my pulse and breathing, and after ten minutes or so I could feel it impatiently starting to flex its mattress into little nodules and then actual lumps, trying to force me up so it could make itself.
"Yes, all right," I grumbled.
I rose, stretched and stepped into the robodrobe, where, after a bracing ultrasonic detox, I was wide awake and ready to choose what to wear. An array of nozzles slid smoothly from the walls. I considered the archive; made a decision. With a soft hiss a fine spray of polymer mist issued into the enclosed space of the robodrobe and coagulated round me into the drapes of the outfit I'd selected. Mirror fields exxoned into being on the walls. I surveyed the result. Perfect! There had been some teething problems with the technology in the early days, but by now most of the glitches had been, as they used to say, "ironed out."
Pausing only at the dispenser to catch a Nutri-Grain bar (rendered satisfying and palatable by many decades of research), I flipped the access to my workport, and said hi to the computer.
"Hello, David," chirped the Turing 9000 in friendly greeting. "What a fetching outfit that is! But then again, I suppose with your tall, slim build, you can wear anything, really."
That's the great thing about the Turing, it always knows the right thing to say. I thanked it, and wondered if I had any mail.
"Ye-es," the Turing admitted. "Technically. Though, having taken a quick look at it, I confess my first instinct was to send it straight to the Recycle bin. I'll retrieve it if you want," it added generously. "But if you take my advice, you won't bother. It's only the usual. Waste of memory, if you ask me. At a pinch I suppose one or two of the mails are not without poetic irony from which you might, in certain moods, derive a modicum of relish."
Begging letters, then, I supposed.
"That's right. More lawyers. Offering to work for food."
Thanks to the genius of Nobel peace laureate George W. Bush in the early part of the century, the world was now virtually crime-free. Every day, thousands of out-of-work solicitors, barristers and High Court Judges touted their labour and sexual availability through cyberspace. Frankly most people were starting to find them a bit of a nuisance. There was talk of a New Deal, some large-scale public works project to keep them all busy.
I deleted the mail, put in my order for the fourth Halo Jones, just released, and turned to the news. Little appeared to be happening. Indeed many journalists were using the shortage of worthwhile news as an excuse to take unpaid sabbaticals. My attention was held by a heartwarming holospread of Julie Burchill and Tony Parsons, publicly reaffirming their marriage vows.
"We just want everyone to know how happy we are," Julie was saying.
Their remarriage nearly fifty years before had surprised everyone. But now, looking at the two dewy-eyed nonagenarians embracing like lovestruck teenagers, it was impossible to think it could have happened in any other way. In a world of sometimes bewildering change, the constancy of their devotion would have melted a flintier heart than mine.
"It's so romantic," the Turing agreed, with a sniff.
A sudden commotion of squeals and grunts from outside had me crossing to the viewport. I looked out, and saw at once what had happened. A herd of GM winged pigs, foraging in the low cloud for strato-truffles, had been thrown into panic by the sudden irruption of a low-flying gravcar in their midst. The airborne porkers had risen, flapping and complaining like a flock of frightened starlings, around the car, and now, as I watched, they scattered, wheeled round into a tight V-formation and took off as one pig towards the south. Their robo-swineherd shook a metal fist at the pilot of the car, then, with a most un-robotic imprecation, he kick-started his rocket boots and set off grimly to round up his herd.
"Goodness,“ I said, "careless driving, that's something you don't often see these days."
The Turing said nothing.
I looked back. It had switched itself off. Exasperated, I saw that the perpetual-motion generator in the corner of the room had run down again. I stomped over and dealt it a good kick. With a clank and a judder it set off once more into a sort of jerky action. It keeps doing that. I must get it looked at. The Turing coughed apologetically as it regained consciousness.
"Was there anything else?" it asked me.
I glared at it. It knew there was. The Stock Market prices. It asks me this every time. And the news is never any different.
"I'm sorry," said the Turing.
It sighed.
"Your Authoriszor shares are at $0.0005, still less than 1% of what you paid for them at the end of the twentieth century."
I nodded fatalistically. I'd expected nothing better.
Some things don't change.
I awoke to the theme from “Knight Rider”, playing on a mobile phone. A few bars into the opening fanfare, the little notes stopped short, to be repeated, a second later, from the beginning. And repeated again. And again.
"That was the 'Theme from “Knight Rider”'," said a genial voice. "And I'm 3Henry Kelly bringing you Classic Ringtones, an hour of the most relaxing ringtones of yesteryear. Thank you for joining us. Now next on the line I think we have ... Irene, from Bournemouth, is it? Hello, Irene!"
"Hello, 3Henry!" came the cheery reply.
"Irene, do you have a favourite ringtone you want to share with us this morning?"
"Yes, I do."
"And what's your choice of Classic Ringtone?"
"Well, 3Henry, I have to admit I'm a bit embarrassed by your question! You see it's always been my favourite ringtone, but I've never known what it's called."
"Never mind! Let's see if I can help you out. Can you hum it for us?"
A giggle. "I'll try," said Irene. A pause. "Er ... dee-deedle dee-deedle dee-deedle dee -"
"Ah, yes. The Bach Suite No. 2 for Flute and Strings in B Minor. That's a lovely little ringtone, isn't it? It's one of my all-time favourites too. Now may I ask, Irene, does that ringtone have any particular significance for you?"
"Yes, you're right, 3Henry, it does. It was the very first ringtone I had, before I was married. My husband, who was my boyfriend then, used to have to commute on the train. So naturally he was on the phone to me all the time. And whenever I hear that ringtone, it still takes me back."
"What a lovely story. For anyone just joining us, this is 3Henry Kelly bringing you Classic Ringtones, an hour of the most relaxing ringtones of yesteryear. I've just been speaking to Irene from Bournemouth. And for you now, Irene, here
is the Bach Suite No. 2 for Flute and Strings in B Minor."
“Dee-deedle dee-deedle dee-deedle dee”
I lay in a partial doze, letting the soothing strains of Classic Ringtones lull me gently awake. I didn't really want to get up, but the smart bed had sensed the change in my pulse and breathing, and after ten minutes or so I could feel it impatiently starting to flex its mattress into little nodules and then actual lumps, trying to force me up so it could make itself.
"Yes, all right," I grumbled.
I rose, stretched and stepped into the robodrobe, where, after a bracing ultrasonic detox, I was wide awake and ready to choose what to wear. An array of nozzles slid smoothly from the walls. I considered the archive; made a decision. With a soft hiss a fine spray of polymer mist issued into the enclosed space of the robodrobe and coagulated round me into the drapes of the outfit I'd selected. Mirror fields exxoned into being on the walls. I surveyed the result. Perfect! There had been some teething problems with the technology in the early days, but by now most of the glitches had been, as they used to say, "ironed out."
Pausing only at the dispenser to catch a Nutri-Grain bar (rendered satisfying and palatable by many decades of research), I flipped the access to my workport, and said hi to the computer.
"Hello, David," chirped the Turing 9000 in friendly greeting. "What a fetching outfit that is! But then again, I suppose with your tall, slim build, you can wear anything, really."
That's the great thing about the Turing, it always knows the right thing to say. I thanked it, and wondered if I had any mail.
"Ye-es," the Turing admitted. "Technically. Though, having taken a quick look at it, I confess my first instinct was to send it straight to the Recycle bin. I'll retrieve it if you want," it added generously. "But if you take my advice, you won't bother. It's only the usual. Waste of memory, if you ask me. At a pinch I suppose one or two of the mails are not without poetic irony from which you might, in certain moods, derive a modicum of relish."
Begging letters, then, I supposed.
"That's right. More lawyers. Offering to work for food."
Thanks to the genius of Nobel peace laureate George W. Bush in the early part of the century, the world was now virtually crime-free. Every day, thousands of out-of-work solicitors, barristers and High Court Judges touted their labour and sexual availability through cyberspace. Frankly most people were starting to find them a bit of a nuisance. There was talk of a New Deal, some large-scale public works project to keep them all busy.
I deleted the mail, put in my order for the fourth Halo Jones, just released, and turned to the news. Little appeared to be happening. Indeed many journalists were using the shortage of worthwhile news as an excuse to take unpaid sabbaticals. My attention was held by a heartwarming holospread of Julie Burchill and Tony Parsons, publicly reaffirming their marriage vows.
"We just want everyone to know how happy we are," Julie was saying.
Their remarriage nearly fifty years before had surprised everyone. But now, looking at the two dewy-eyed nonagenarians embracing like lovestruck teenagers, it was impossible to think it could have happened in any other way. In a world of sometimes bewildering change, the constancy of their devotion would have melted a flintier heart than mine.
"It's so romantic," the Turing agreed, with a sniff.
A sudden commotion of squeals and grunts from outside had me crossing to the viewport. I looked out, and saw at once what had happened. A herd of GM winged pigs, foraging in the low cloud for strato-truffles, had been thrown into panic by the sudden irruption of a low-flying gravcar in their midst. The airborne porkers had risen, flapping and complaining like a flock of frightened starlings, around the car, and now, as I watched, they scattered, wheeled round into a tight V-formation and took off as one pig towards the south. Their robo-swineherd shook a metal fist at the pilot of the car, then, with a most un-robotic imprecation, he kick-started his rocket boots and set off grimly to round up his herd.
"Goodness,“ I said, "careless driving, that's something you don't often see these days."
The Turing said nothing.
I looked back. It had switched itself off. Exasperated, I saw that the perpetual-motion generator in the corner of the room had run down again. I stomped over and dealt it a good kick. With a clank and a judder it set off once more into a sort of jerky action. It keeps doing that. I must get it looked at. The Turing coughed apologetically as it regained consciousness.
"Was there anything else?" it asked me.
I glared at it. It knew there was. The Stock Market prices. It asks me this every time. And the news is never any different.
"I'm sorry," said the Turing.
It sighed.
"Your Authoriszor shares are at $0.0005, still less than 1% of what you paid for them at the end of the twentieth century."
I nodded fatalistically. I'd expected nothing better.
Some things don't change.
