jet pack

Flash forward 164 million years. By the summer of my thirty-fifth year, my life was evidently half over, and I’d come to accept that I was never going to play shortstop for the Baltimore Orioles or be the next Spencer Tracey or Kurt Cobain. That’s when the question was zapped my way like a laser shot from robot eyes: Where’s my jetpack? Whatever happened to what must surely be the greatest promise never kept?