Nothing cures inordinate nostalgia like the realization that kids today think the seventies were cool. Every time I think I want to go back - to anywhere, any time - I look around and ask what I’d want to give up for the sake of fonts and graphics. Not much. Put me in a time machine, send me back, I’d be miserable. It would only take a few months before I ruined a tiki party by saying that I enjoyed the chance to wear a floral-patterned shirt and black-frame glasses without manifest irony, but I missed having a UNIVAC on my lap and a computer in my pocket and robots on Mars and no Commies, okay? Punch my ticket, I’m heading back.
Oh, you kidder! Here, have another hot dog.
No seriously. I’m heading back. It’s where I belong. Rather feel out of joint there on occasion than sit here with mildewed sci-fi mags and dream of the future, y’know?
Besides: my Sims have to go to the bathroom.
RTWT. You owe it to yourself. Really.