I remember the summer of 1997 vividly. You could be unreachable . If you drove from Boston to Maine, you simply vanished for three hours. No cell signal. No texting “I’m 5 minutes away.” You just... arrived. It felt like magic.
I miss when “following” just meant the next page in a book, not a metric of your worth.
Here is the thing I miss most: The naivety.
Following 1998, the world didn't just change. It accelerated.
Following 1998, silence became suspicious. If you didn’t reply to an email within 24 hours, you were negligent. If you didn’t have a mobile phone, you were eccentric. We traded the inconvenience of absence for the anxiety of availability.
What do you remember from the year before the noise? Let me know in the comments—but I’ll probably reply tomorrow. I’m still in 1997 mode.
I’ve been digitizing old home videos from 1997 lately. Grainy VHS footage of backyard barbecues, the static hiss of a CRT television in the background, and the sound of a rotary phone ringing. My nephew watched it over my shoulder and asked, “Why is everyone just... waiting ?”
October 5, 2023
Looking back at media produced before 1998, there is a relentless optimism. We thought Y2K was a technical glitch, not an existential dread. We thought the internet would be a global coffeehouse, not a global colosseum. We watched The Truman Show (1998) and thought, “Wow, what a creepy concept,” not “Oh, that’s just Tuesday on Instagram.”
Following 1998, waiting became a glitch. Google was founded in September 1998. The iMac dropped in August of that year—translucent blue plastic promising that technology didn't have to be a beige box in a dusty office. Suddenly, answers were five seconds away. Music fit in your pocket (shout out to the original Rio PMP300). The friction of life was being sanded down.
1998 was the last year of the old world. It was the final moment you could be a kid riding a bike without a leash (a cell phone) to your parents. It was the last time you could get hopelessly lost and discover a diner by accident.
The Last Polaroid Summer: Why 1997 Felt Like the End of an Era
Following 1998, irony took over. Grunge died. Nu-metal and boy bands fought for the radio, and the cynicism of the late 90s gave way to the pre-traumatic stress of 9/11. We stopped dreaming about flying cars and started worrying about the backup of our hard drives.
I remember the summer of 1997 vividly. You could be unreachable . If you drove from Boston to Maine, you simply vanished for three hours. No cell signal. No texting “I’m 5 minutes away.” You just... arrived. It felt like magic.
I miss when “following” just meant the next page in a book, not a metric of your worth.
Here is the thing I miss most: The naivety.
Following 1998, the world didn't just change. It accelerated. Following -1998-
Following 1998, silence became suspicious. If you didn’t reply to an email within 24 hours, you were negligent. If you didn’t have a mobile phone, you were eccentric. We traded the inconvenience of absence for the anxiety of availability.
What do you remember from the year before the noise? Let me know in the comments—but I’ll probably reply tomorrow. I’m still in 1997 mode.
I’ve been digitizing old home videos from 1997 lately. Grainy VHS footage of backyard barbecues, the static hiss of a CRT television in the background, and the sound of a rotary phone ringing. My nephew watched it over my shoulder and asked, “Why is everyone just... waiting ?” I remember the summer of 1997 vividly
October 5, 2023
Looking back at media produced before 1998, there is a relentless optimism. We thought Y2K was a technical glitch, not an existential dread. We thought the internet would be a global coffeehouse, not a global colosseum. We watched The Truman Show (1998) and thought, “Wow, what a creepy concept,” not “Oh, that’s just Tuesday on Instagram.”
Following 1998, waiting became a glitch. Google was founded in September 1998. The iMac dropped in August of that year—translucent blue plastic promising that technology didn't have to be a beige box in a dusty office. Suddenly, answers were five seconds away. Music fit in your pocket (shout out to the original Rio PMP300). The friction of life was being sanded down. No cell signal
1998 was the last year of the old world. It was the final moment you could be a kid riding a bike without a leash (a cell phone) to your parents. It was the last time you could get hopelessly lost and discover a diner by accident.
The Last Polaroid Summer: Why 1997 Felt Like the End of an Era
Following 1998, irony took over. Grunge died. Nu-metal and boy bands fought for the radio, and the cynicism of the late 90s gave way to the pre-traumatic stress of 9/11. We stopped dreaming about flying cars and started worrying about the backup of our hard drives.