Fifteen years ago, worldwide anxiety over a possibility that computers wouldn't be able to handle the calendar change from 1999 to 2000 set into motion one of those end of the world-type scenarios humans regularly gravitate towards.  Y2K, or year 2000, fit the mold associated with our doom-ridden fascination with round numbers.  In the 990s it was believed by Christians that the world would end--the Last Judgment would occur--in 1000.  3000 will probably also be feared by our descendants, if any. 
     Since the Christian calendar, based on an outdated estimate of the year of Jesus Christ's birth year, is really an approximation, it's anyone's guess as to what year it actually is.  And why hinge the counting of time itself on the birth, before and after, of someone so hidden to history, but brilliantly visible when it comes to the unprovable method of faith?
     In 1999, I recall vividly, people freaked out over a number.  On December 31 of that year my girlfriend and I had dinner at my sister's house.  It was very cold.  We drove home shortly before midnight, when the big power failure was supposed to happen, that is, if Y2K would not be imaginary.  I felt nervous as the moment approached.  This disaster scenario had been hyped in the news long enough to infuse billions of minds. 
     When nothing happened (except the continuation of human gullibility) my girlfriend and I were relieved, and a little pissed off, for Y2K is an example of how government and news entities can scare people.  Now, whether it's the threat of terrorism, illegal immigration, drug cartels, or protestors facing cops armored like black beetles, scaring the public has become a way of doing business.  When people are scared they want to do things that make them feel good and safe, like spend money.  They spend money when they're not scared, too, but gun sales in and around Ferguson, Missouri, would, if it were possible, give the NRA orgasms.
    
                                                                           Vic Neptune