Dear Amritsar,
I recently read about a company that plans to digitize smells so that it can send them over the Internet. Why? I mean, what would make anybody think that was a good idea?
Edvardo
Hey, Babe,
Pure Tech Bubble nostalgia. There’s no other explanation for it.
Send your relationship problems to the Alternate Reality News Service’s sex, love and technology columnist at questions@lespagesauxfolles.ca. Amritsar Al-Falloudjianapour is not a trained therapist, but she does know a lot of stuff. AMRITSAR SAYS: Contrary to popular rumour, Amritsar has never been involved with Wired magazine’s Mr. Know-It-All, romantically, financially or holographically. Especially not holographically. Is that what you think of her, dear readers? Well! Rest assured that she would never be involved with that unstable love child of Abigail Van Buren and Bill Nye! Oh, sure, there was that magical night in Istanbul eight years ago. And, when Amritsar says magical, Amritsar means it started with a card trick and ended with Mr. Know-It-All making himself disappear. A woman may also have been sawn in half at some point in the evening – Amritsar is a little hazy on the details. Many Flaming Sambucas were likely involved – not that Amritsar would ever judge an alcoholic beverage on the basis of its sexual orientation. Still. There was something about the hot, dry night air, the distant shofar music wafting in on the evening breeze, the way Mr. Know-It-All, clad only in an adult diaper and a garland wreath, read from Plankton’s Guide to Ancient Astronomy – brr! Amritsar gets shivers down her spine just thinking about it! And, this is despite the fact that, as long-time readers know, Amritsar’s spine wears leg warmers! Still, can a single night of intellectual bliss be considered “involved?” Amritsar believes it was Copernicus who definitively proved that the answer to this question was “No way, babes.” True, Amritsar met up with Mr. Know-It-All two years, six months, three weeks, twelve hours, twenty-seven minutes and thirteen seconds later (not that Amritsar keeps a continuous cold caesium fountain atomic clock next to her bed to keep track of such things – it just has one hell of a snooze button!) And, yes, after that encounter in romantic Waukegan, Italy, Amritsar had to admit that Mr. Know-It-All really knows how to fill out a tuxedo t-shirt! To be sure, he doesn’t like his martinis shaken or stirred – he has quite a way with a centrifuge! (Fortunately, four star hotels in Italy come complete with centrifuges, airlocks and pocket x-ray machines – be sure to pack your lead-lined vest! – making pleasurable travel in that country a theory that scientists accept as fact!) Amritsar was not expecting to ever hear his high-pitched, squeally tones again, but when Mr. Know-It-All whispered the Ternary Goldbach Conjecture in her ear, she knew she was in for an unforgettable evening! (Although, to be fair to Amritsar’s memory, the Retcon cocktails they sipped by the hot tub water slide – not to mention the vatful – may have affected her memories of that time in her life more than she would like to admit.) Then, there was the evening three years after that (I’ll spare you the temporal details) in Paris, which Amritsar has never found to be an especially romantic city, but it’s more about the one you’re with and how the two of you use the yak than the local ambience, isn’t it? Well, it should be. Let’s agree to disagree (even though you are clearly wrong) on that one. In the intervening years, Mr. Know-It-All had learned how to use a radio telescope. YUM! There was also the time at the Yokohama Pewter Hard Drive museum (which, for some reason, is in Tangiers), but that hardly counts, given that the yak had colitis and had to stay home. Oh, and not to forget the time we “coincidentally” (Amritsar uses the scare quotes on the advice of her lawyers) bumped into each other in the shower at Madame Tussaud’s in Niagara Falls (the prettier, Canadianer side). Not to mention the time we “accidentally” met on the space shuttle (if ever scare quotes were more deserved…!); that’s the week in space Chris Hadfield doesn’t talk about! Still still. Chronologies can be sooooo tiresome, don’t you think. And, in any case, Amritsar’s continuous cold caesium fountain atomic clock sprang a leak – she suspects Pierrot le Chat was looking for some catnip, but Pierrot insists that she not jump to conclusions without any evidence. The point is that, after all of these encounters, Mr. Know-It-All vanished until his next unexpected appearance. Not a phone call. Not a smoke signal. Not a distress signal on sub-sonic frequencies. Nothing. Amritsar is painfully aware that Mr. Know-It-All is on Twitherd, but does he send her a private tweep? She means, really, would it be that hard to pick up the keyboard and say hi? Just to let her know that you’re thinking about her? Really? Hunh? Would it kill you to say nuqneH?
But, aah, other than that, Amritsar is not involved with Mr. Know-It-All. Definitely not.