It's risky, writing in advance about something that's supposed to happen Friday morning. It could go horribly wrong. It's a time capsule event. We're handling something that hasn't seen sunlight since 1948. Worst-case scenario is one of those Indiana Jones/Ark of the Covenant-type things, where potent spirits stream from the busted cask and everyone's face melts. Or: Someone who attended the 1948 ceremony had a case of the Spanish grippe and coughed into the thing before it was sealed, and the virus has mutated into something with a 90 percent mortality rate. The city streets empty out; the skyscrapers are barren; I-35W is full of rusting cars, and we still don't have Sunday liquor sales because the last two legislators are deadlocked.

Don't worry. Neither outcome is likely, because the capsule won't be opened. They'll crack it open in 2048, as intended. The ceremony at the old Star Tribune headquarters concerns the capsule's relocation, and even if some wiseacre ventriloquist throws his voice and makes it sound like someone in the capsule is saying, "Lemme out," they will not peek at its contents.

Admirable restraint. I'd love to see what's in it, but a promise is a promise. And for all we know, it's booby-trapped to go off if opened before its time. There are certain phrases you do not want to hear when opening a time capsule, and "Why is it ticking now?" is at the top of the list.

The 1939 World's Fair buried a time capsule intended to be opened in 6139, a date that seems impossibly remote, like the completion of the Southwest Light Rail line. It contains Wonder Bread and a can of Cheez Whiz so they can have a nice snack after the opening ceremony. The rest of the contents are just what you'd expect, and this is where time capsules miss an opportunity. We should prank the future.

We know what's in the Strib capsule. Newspapers. Some money. Seeds. Yawn. What a missed opportunity! Make a fake newspaper about government agents seizing the bodies from a crashed UFO. Put in some records that supposedly were top-10 hits but consist of nothing but people reciting the periodic table in a falsetto to the accompaniment of a zither and slide whistle. Print some fake money that shows FDR with six arms (a cigarette holder in each hand) and denominations like CONTINENTAL DEMI-QUATLOO. Anthropologists would build careers explaining these marvelous relics, and then five years later they'd dig up one that shot out a spring-loaded flag when opened, saying JUST KIDDING. Bury it all with some skeletons dressed in clown suits. Make 'em wonder.

Maybe that's not a wise idea. It's possible the capsule will be pried open by suspicious brutes in loincloths in a post-apocalyptic world, in which case they will struggle with the words and pictures in the newspaper and invent new theologies based on these mysterious texts. This is why you have to be careful. You think you're doing future scholars a favor, and it turns out that in 6015 the learned priests consult a Sid Hartman bobblehead to see if he favors their war against the Ched'har Tribe to the east in Waskonz'n.

People! We have taken the augurs! The holy head nods YEA! Let there be WAR!

In Europe they're always discovering bits of buried history; they found the bones of Richard III under a parking lot, for heaven's sake. In American terms, this is like someone putting in a septic system out in Eagan and coming across the remains of John Adams. If you read archaeology news, you see stories like "excavators find ancient Roman villa under the floor of a less ancient Roman villa," and there's always coins, vases, brooches, knives and other everyday detritus. It's the commonplace items that fascinate us, not the items chosen by the officials. It's the ads for gum and movies that tell about daily life's mundane realities, not the stories of war and laws.

Would we be interested in a scroll that detailed the public debates about who would pay for the Coliseum? Perhaps, but a scroll that described what was on the food vendor's menu (braised ostrich ovaries in Syrian honey for the noble class, hot salted pebbles for the ordinary folk) would tell us more.

Which leads me to my suggestion for the ultimate time capsule. The next time Target decides to close an "underperforming" store — a term that always sounds as if the staff was insufficiently dramatic, forgot their lines, missed their cues — just dig a pit and bury the whole store. Empty the bags in the freezer, of course, so nothing rots, but leave the wrappers and cans so Future People see what ordinary life looked like.

Who knows what they'd think? They might encounter the shampoo aisle, look at the options: Here's one for all-day manageable hair with shine-enhancing conditioning beads infused with mango essence for frizz control. Yet this one holds forth the promise of volumizing herbal agents with beta-carotene. These people were insane.

If we bury it around October, they'll think we had elaborate funeral rituals in which the lords of the underworld were bribed with small confections.

They might hold a news conference and say that most of the site has been uncovered, and work remains on figuring out what it all means, but they may never understand why the tribe of Target and its minions suddenly worshiped Lilly Pulitzer.

If you're checking back issues of the newspaper, Future People, I wish I could help you on that one. But it's a mystery to me as well.

jlileks@startribune.com 612-673-7858