She blinked into our office as we were appraising the latest schedules for Joe Satriani and Third Day. “Quick,” she said, “You must publish the dates for the on the Internet. Entire civilizations will live or die depending upon your actions.”

We thought that was pretty ominous, even for her. “And how will our actions affect the future?” we asked her. “Will publishing these tours bring peace to the Middle East? Feed the poor and heal the sick? Bring service charge relief to the masses?”

“If only,” she responded. “But we can’t change everything. However, if you publish these tours, along with Slayer and American Analog Set, you’ll prevent the Canadians from taking over the planet in 2009.”

Needless to say, that was all it took to get us off of our collective duffs and jump into action. “Canadians, eh,” we muttered as we plugged dates, cities and venues into the database. “We always thought they were up to no good. Them with their hockey pucks, maple syrup and pronouncing every word as if it rhymed with ‘boot.’ Always causing trouble.”

“That’s nothing, compared with what they have up their sleeves in the future,” she said as she pulled additional routings from her purse, including the dates for Pere Ubu. “Like in 2010 when Prime Minister William Shatner declares curling to be the national pastime from the Arctic Circle to the Rio Grande.”

“No!” we cried. “Is there no limit to the atrocities that those descendents of hooligans and lumberjacks won’t stoop to next?”

“Afraid not,” she answered. “It all starts with the great donut famine of 2009. That’s when the combined forces of Canada, including every Molson truck and Zamboni, rolled across our borders and dulled everything in their path. Here, while I think of it, you better toss in these extra dates for Bob Dylan and Hootie & The Blowfish as well. Every little bit helps.”

Feverishly we worked through the night as the lady from the future pulled itinerary after itinerary from her purse. We slammed in Fu Manchu, entered dates for Galactic and revised the listings for Dream Theater and Biohazard, as she described the horrors of a Canadian dictatorship, including socialized medicine and moving Hollywood to Vancouver. Finally after 72 hours of processing tour info for acts like Vanilla Ice and Winger, she finally said, “That’s it.”

“Is the crisis averted?” we asked as we collapsed at our workstation.

“Hard to tell. Multiple timelines are in play,” she responded as she gathered her things and prepared to make the trip back to the future. “However, all the work you’ve done will give President Ricky Martin a fighting chance.” She paused for a moment, then pointing to a fax we had received earlier, asked, “What’s that?”

“Just some press on Kelly Osbourne. You know, Ozzy’s kid? She’s been pretty popular ever since that reality show based on her family debuted on MTV.”

“Oh, yes,” she said as she nodded her head. “The show that redefined all that is good on television.”

“Do you mean to tell us that reality shows are still popular in the future?”

“You better believe it,” she answered. “Our most popular TV show is an uncensored 24/7 portrayal of life in a women’s prison.”

“Sounds like must see TV.”

“It is,” she said. “It stars a woman inmate who tries to bring order to a group of female prisoners who would just as soon kill you for your Coal Chamber CDs than politely ask to borrow them. It’s the most successful show on Fox.”

“Fox,” we muttered. “We should have known. And what are they going to call this program? Babes Behind Bars? Prison Playgirls?”

“Oh, nothing so crass,” she responded as she started punching the time coordinates into her PDA. “In the future, the Fox Television Network stands for nothing but culture and good taste. It’s the equivalent to your PBS.”

“Then what will this reality show set at a women’s prison be called?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” she shot back as she started to fade from our 2002 existence. “Martha Stewart’s Living, of course.”