Leave it to a six-year-old to put things in perspective. When Bill Wattersons creation Hobbes the tiger reminds Calvin that the new millennium is around the corner, the hyperactive kid explodes.
"Where are the flying cares?
Where are the moon colonies?
Where are the personal robots and the zero-gravity boots, huh?
You call this the future? Ha!
"Where are the rocketpacks? Where are the disintegration rays? Where are the floating cities?..."
And then, the clincher:
"We still have weather! Give me a break."
Yes, give me a break. Just because the calendar is breaking out into new digits, is sex going to change? Sex? SEX? That short, swift act, at once tender and violent, whose rawness all religions have tried to cloak with mysticism, whose anticipation has been the theme of world literature and whose repercussions the base of medicine and psychology. That brief act of thrust and parry without which all of us would be, literally and figuratively, dead, is that going to change because a celibate monk 2,000 years ago decreed that such and such a date would be Zero Anno Domini?