Time Passages

It won’t be long until proper names will mean nothing.
The Big 10 will have 18 teams in football and 22 in other sports. The Big 12 will have eight schools. USC of Los Angeles will join the Atlantic Coast Conference, and USC of Columbia will be in the Mountain West.
The House of Representatives will be the senate, and the Senate will be the supreme court, which will be the Department of the Interior. Or else everything in government will have cutesy-pie nicknames like Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac.
Fortunately, “Maggie Mae” will still be by Rod Stewart, most likely long after Rod has punted. Syracuse will still be on the Island of Sicily as well as the State of New York.
Mostly, though, stability will be fleeting.
The days of the Boston Garden and the Forums in Montreal and L.A., and the felt one in New York, are over. Soon the same stadium will have one name for football and another for soccer, even while both sports are football in their ways. Athletes will have their names legally changed, but not for religious or, uh, goofy reasons (as in Free, World B.). The best player in the NBA will hold a bidding war before he becomes Rasheed Nike, and then two years later, when age starts to take its toll, he’ll be Rasheed 5-Hour Energy Drink, and after his playing days are over, he’ll coach under the name Rasheed Viagra. His youngest child will be born as Gerber and grow up to be Big Mac.
If I ever write a fantasy novel, one of the characters is going to be named Gerber Viagra.
Social media is taking its toll, too. The book I am reading begins in this manner:
“In the predawn darkness of August 26, 1929, in the back bedroom of a small house in Torrance, California, a twelve-year-old boy sat up in bed, listening.”
A future translation will begin:
“4 it b lite, long muhfuh time ago, little punk b up n dat raggedy house, say wtf.”
Or, there may be the redneck version:
“Gawd, it was dark as fuck when muh boy got up ‘fore it got hot as fuck, and he was scared shitless. As fuck.”
Somewhere in the great beyond, Shakespeare will weep.
Me, though, I remain optimistic.

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