By Russell Johnson

Last month I visited doctors twice: in San Francisco to have a spot of sun damage checked, and in Bangkok for a physical. As Mrs. Kuchenbecker, my sixth grade teacher said, "Let us compare und contrast."

SAN FRANCISCO
I make an appointment, the doctor will see me in about a month. I show up on time, fill out forms and, clutching my Ganesha (the Hindu elephant god associated with overcoming obstacles), am waterboarded by a nurse-enforcer who finally establishes my financial worthiness. I sit down. Another patient in the waiting room stands up, exclaims, "I don't have time for this," and leaves.

After 45 minutes I am ushered into Doctor's room (as in "Doctor will see you," as if his mother had ordained his profession at birth and named him Doctor). There I wait for another half hour, poring over an ancient copy of Forbes.

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Forget Mad Max, forget Bladerunner, forget The Matrix and all of the rest of those visions of a future of bombed out cities, leather-clad mutants and cyborgs on Harleys. I am looking at the REAL future, a tall, marble-floored tower of soft-spoken beings offering precious gifts of Gucci and Tiffany and YSL, every overpriced name brand on earth, in fact, and a grand piano that plays itself. A world sealed away from grit and random noise, stray animals and poor people.

  Text, photos and video by Russell Johnson