Showing posts with label Laura Ingalls Wilder. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Laura Ingalls Wilder. Show all posts

Thursday, January 31, 2013

"Men have become the tools of their tools."*


   I recently had the opportunity to spend a weekend without Internet, and I have to tell you it was such a great spiritual, enlightening experience.

   Just kidding.

   It sucked ass.

   It stormed and rained on Saturday and while that may not be related to the Internet situation, it seems too coincidental to be completely ignored. Not that I understand where the Interweb comes from or how it gets on my computer or how anything technological works, but I’m almost positive the rain or those kamikaze palm fronds caused the ‘net to be wiped out for nearly 30 hours. Boo. Or maybe it was just Verizon’s damn fault.

   But anyway.

   I felt like Laura Ingalls Wilder out on the prairie without plumbing or insulation or running water or electricity. (Or store-bought underpants or deodorant or tampons, for that matter.) It was truly just as bad as that.

   There are a bajillion things you can’t do without the Internet, and I’ll admit that some are more important than others, but in the end they're all highly essential. I have no idea what would have happened without my 3G cell phone (which also didn’t work too consistently). I most likely would have died. Really. I would have died.

   Here is what you can’t do without the Interwebs:

1. Check the blogs you like to read.

2. Find out if anyone has liked anything you did/said/posted on Facebook.

3. Check your bank balance.

4. Check your email.

5. Get directions to anything.

6. Find out a phone number. (Remember phone books? Yeah, they still exist. But who has one? I always throw away recycle the one they leave on my stairs, so they’re no use to me.)

7. Watch anything on Roku. (That means no Netflix, Amazon, or Hulu. What am I supposed to do? Watch a goddamn DVD? What am I, a farmer?)

8. Get a recipe that you had planned to make but to which you now have no access. (But you do have a crap-load of ingredients and no discernible clue on the planet what to do with them.)

9. Read the news. (Yeah, I don’t get the newspaper anymore so…)***

10. Find out how many calories are in the brownie you’ve been offered.

11. Check movie times.

12. Find out what a word means or if a celebrity is an Oscar winner or what your horoscope is or what the projected forecast might be.
13. Stave off the inevitable boredom and, upon losing, eat for the sole purpose of entertainment.

   Here’s the thing: I’ve trained myself over the last 12-13 years to be COMPLETELY DEPENDENT on the Internet. That’s what I thought I was supposed to do. I thought it was “the wave of the future.”

   And it’s sad, in a way, because I know I spent a good 18 years being perfectly sufficient without the Interwebs. I went to libraries to check out books for research papers. I looked up phone numbers in the phone book. I drove around aimlessly until I found whatever destination I sought (never have been able to read a map, maybe that's why I love maps so much?). I checked my horoscope in the newspaper (because, yes, I had a subscription). I called 4-1-1 from a pay phone to find out movie times, or I just went to the theatre and figured it out. I did those things, but…I don’t want to do them anymore. I really don’t.
California's cell tower power. **(


   In many ways, it’s easy to see how people in “ye olden times” kept it fit. They used to have to plow the fields all day and put a bucket down a well to get water and cut wood for the fire and then they’d go into the house and eat 6 pigs, four chickens, and a bushel of corn for dinner: you work hard, you get to eat a lot. Nowadays, we search the Internet from a seated position while eating microwave popcorn and can’t understand why we’re enormously fat.

   But imagine if Laura Ingalls Wilder’s well was filled with sand and her fields were blighted by insects and the trees were all wet and mealy and no good for firewood: then she’d feel as fucked as I do when the ‘webs go down.****
*Henry David Thoreau. Kind of a funny quote when you think of the new connotation the word "tool" has these days.
**Drawing inspired by Sam Resnick.
***I feel guilty that I implied that I read the news. I really don't. I did have a subscription to LA Times in college but since then my news-gathering has been mostly sporadic at best. I apologize both for misleading you and for not reading the news more consistently.
****I'm actually pretty sure all these things happened to Laura Ingalls Wilder and she did, in fact, survive. But that's not really the point I'm making.




Thursday, April 26, 2012

"I'm not crazy. My mother had me tested."*


        I woke up from my nap this afternoon with the tune to Murder She Wrote in my head. That’s weird on a number of levels. For one, I didn’t realize I remembered the theme to Murder She Wrote. And even if I did, I would never tell anyone about it, except the four of you who read this. And two, I haven’t seen, watched or even heard a reference to that show in quite a serious number of years. Not because it wasn’t awesome. Who doesn’t love an elderly lady sleuth? But because WHO THE FUCK WATCHES MURDER SHE WROTE? (Wait, is there supposed to be a comma in there? Going to look it up…)
        Okay, I just imdb-ed Murder, She Wrote and yes, there is a comma. But who cares? Because get this: that show ran for 12 goddamn seasons!?! Wow. Angela Lansbury is set for life. (Wait. Is she still alive? Going to look it up…) Yes. She is, apparently. Even after completing 264 episodes of Murder, She Wrote.
Jessica Fletcher the spy.
        Sometimes I wish I were a detective. Only I’d call myself a gumshoe, because that sounds more conspiratorial. But let’s face it: not much ever happens to me because I’m constantly sitting around writing about Murder, She Wrote or other nonsensical and unimportant crap. Although, Jessica Fletcher was also a writer, so maybe this whole thing has some sort of symbolic significance. I woke up with the Murder, She Wrote theme in my head because I’m destined to be a spy who writes novels. Or a novelist who writes about spies? Is dream analysis still a thing? Because I could definitely get into that.
Jessica Fletcher the writer.

        I tried to study my GRE math today after coming to the conclusion that I had to start at the most basic level and read carefully and do the problems and pray to the gods of numbers that I would start remembering some fraction of something I learned in high school. I literally had to start at the very beginning in a chapter called “Basic Arithmetic.” So sad and dispiriting. What am I, Laura Ingalls Wilder? I only need to know reading, 'riting, and 'rithmatic so I can measure how much cow's milk fits in a bucket or how many acres I can plow before sundown? (That's so mean to Laura. She was a great writer and farmers aren't dumb. Oh god! Digging a hole!) Good news is, I’m apparently very good at simplifying fractions. Bad news is, I can’t read directions. Or add. What if I fail the GRE? I’m really nervous/depressed/caught in a hole (another hole!) of my own making that I can’t seem to claw my way out of. Out of which I can’t seem to claw my way? Prepositions are stupid and they belong at the end of the sentence. (Whoa—there’s a game changer, for ya).
        Writing makes me happy, even if it is this sort of nonsensical bullshit. It feels sort of Virginia Woolf-ish in that stream-of-consciousness way. But she killed herself, so what’s the lesson there? Why is it that in order to feel like a writer one must necessarily also feel like a crazy person or a depressive? That seems awful, but somehow true. 
     If you've gotten this far, I appreciate your readership. This has been an exercise. Only an exercise.
DISCLAIMER: I am not crazy. 
*Sheldon Cooper (Jim Parsons) on CBS's somehow underrated (despite being on CBS) Big Bang Theory.