SUNDAY BREAKFAST (In space there will be no bacon.)

Hey ho, it’s Sunday morning and the breakfast of fantasy is from the promised, pristine, and oh-so sanitary, space-wheel-and-moonbase future of a decade past in which HAL 9000 opened the pod bay door on request from Dave. Today, in the USA, the clocks went forward but most else resisted any similar motion, except maybe cell phone technology. Do I miss these worlds-to-be that never-were? Do I feel deprived? Many yes, but maybe not this one. It was all a little too clean. The food was too white or too pinky beige, and far too symmetrical. Like a bleached version of a kind of rice flour and high fructose corn syrup maybe from Japan or India, or some part of the Mediterranean, except bleached of all color, in a molded plastic tray with built-in juice boxes and completely devoid of sauce, condiments or gravy. Hardly an appropriate follow-up to any imagined night of floating-bubble-sweat, free-fall, zero-g, orbital debauchery high on speedballs of narcotics and stimulants yet to be invented, where only space could hear your co-mingled screams. Yes, my friends, in space there will be no bacon.

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The secret word is Velcro