(This article was originally published in May 2001)

Remember those days before the Internet? Well…not really.

Trying to think back to a pre-Internet time is like trying to recall your earliest memories as a child. Everything comes out hazy. Try to remember half of what you were just reading about on your last cyber-surf and that same haze drifts in. Strain as you will, nothing definite will surface, just a wash of broken images.

Welcome to the information-overload age, where the moment is but an annoying wait until the next bit of information comes up on screen, which then prompts another click, and another wait, and then another click, and so on.

As you step into this age you'll notice everything is bathed in a glow of indistinctness. The computer keeps buzzing and before your eyes flash pictures and words and even sounds, and your fingertips busy themselves against the click of the keyboard. Quick, flip to the next page. No, that's no good, go somewhere else—something with better information. Empty your brain; make space for the next page.

Five minutes later—what was that first site about? Who knows, and who cares.

But one must have something concrete in the maze that is cyberspace. On to the next exercise—remember your first real memory with the Internet? If you do, it's probably more a moment of realization than a specific Web site you saw or the joy of discovering your first e-mail. At least that's how it was with me. And like most incidents with the Internet, it was one of those peculiar, oh-that-was-OK-but-kinda-strange sorts of experiences that quickly fades away out of sight. But because this one was the first, it has stuck with me, lodged in one of the last accessible corners of my mind.

I was in my first year of university, and we had taken to idling away our time on the Internet on these new interactive things called 'chat lines.' My friends and I thought it was funny, and after getting kicked off a few sites we decided to get the whole school kicked off for a while—which we did. But rather than receive praise for our comical genius, we were hit with insults and pleas from annoyed students who actually enjoyed those rooms for something else. Was it emotional satisfaction? At the time we couldn't tell. But I remember an odd feeling creeping in, a premonition of sorts that told me there was something strange about this whole Internet thing.

After getting kicked off those chat rooms and enduring the reproaches of our fellow students, we decided to let it be. Geez, if it's that important to you, we thought.

Fast-forward a few months. We were in my room, which was ahead of its time in that I could access the Web from my own computer. If I were a tech-man, I certainly would have been one of the cool ones. Unfortunately, I wasn't—a tech-man, that is.

One of the more noble avenues we students used the Internet for was the pursuit of pornography. We were young and yes, I'm sure we were the only ones. But back in those days I couldn't get pictures to come up, so we had to amuse ourselves otherwise. If this sounds almost like an old grandparent reminiscing about the glory days of radio, before the TV was invented, it should. Because that's what it was like for us.

Somehow my friends and I managed to 'chat' with a young girl from Alaska one night (this was after the benevolent chat room leaders allowed the school back on). We were sitting there at around midnight, bored, a room full of guys staring at a computer screen. Sound familiar?

What next, we wondered? Of course, the answer was clear: cyber sex.

"Ask her what she's wearing," somebody yelled out. It was done.

"Tell her you're taking your shirt off." Again, it was done.

"Have her take hers off."

"Yeah, now the bra!"

"Give her a kiss."

"What's she saying?"

"She's hot."

"Really? Take off her pants."

"Now take off her panties."

"What's she saying now?"

We hung on to the next line, waiting for her words to dance across the screen. But nothing followed. A little note came up—our cyber-lover had logged off.

"What? That sucks!" we all said.

Then we looked at each other. So that was cyber-sex, or at least a taste of it. Pretty lame, we all agreed.

Everyone quickly forgot the affair and awaited the next conversation. But as the guy at the control tower typed away, an odd feeling came over me. I looked over my room, at everyone gawking at the glowing box, and thought to myself, "Is this really what it's come to?"

Five years later, whizzing through the Internet, downloading songs and pictures, reading the news, writing e-mails, I've accepted that, yes, this is what the world has come to. Faster. Everything has to be faster so more information can be shoved into the head. And pornography? Well, anyone who has ever been on the Net knows it probably accounts for over half the Web sites in the universe.

I wouldn't know though—it's just what I hear. Of course I wouldn't look at it, I'm an adult now, above those silly things. Somebody else, some perverted soul, must be doing it all.

And let's just say that I did by accident stumble unknowingly onto such filth. I would just delete my history folder, and then it disappears, leaving no trace. In an instant it all vanishes in a poof and floats away, just like all the other memories in this the information-overload age.

Copyright © 2001 Norman Gates. All Rights Reserved.

Norman Gates is a writer living near Toronto trying to decide if he will abandon the Internet forever, or not.