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So,
I'm writing this to let you know . . . Excuse me,
my pager just went off, it's my boss from my day
job, she wants me to fill in for a sick co-worker
who everyone knows isn't sick but he's union and
I'm not so it'll be me filling in, I'll just get
on the horn with her for two seconds and I'll get
back to business. . .
 I'm
back. Where was I? Oh yeah, my little piece on how
hard. . .Oh, sorry, the e-mail sound just went off
on the computer. Let's see, that's my girlfriend.
She's in Africa helping out AIDS victims, but she
brought a laptop with her to keep in touch. Just
let me whip off a brief note to tell her how things
are here. "Not much happening here, honey, but write
back soon! Love, me." That should keep her happy
for a while. . .
Now,
where were we? Right, my stimulating dissertation
on how hard it is… Damn, now the cell phone is going!
Hold on a sec. "Hello? Hey, man. Nothing, just sitting
down at the computer. Yeah, that sounds like a good
idea. Okay, nine o'clock then. Later." Again, I
apologize. That was just my buddy from my part-time
job. He's not working with me tonight, but he wanted
to meet at the cyber-café after work to surf the
Web together. He doesn't have the Net at home like
I do, poor bastard. Those who aren't Net-savvy are
doomed to fall by the wayside. I think somebody
famous said that; can't remember who, though. .
.
Anyway,
back to the piece. The whole point of it is simply
to say that it's getting harder and harder to… Oh
no, you're not going to believe this. This time,
it's my home phone. I'm really sorry. Let me get
this, and I'll be right back, I swear. "Hello? No,
she's not home. No, I just got home right now myself,
so I don't have a clue where anyone in the family
is. Sorry. Can I take a message? Okay, just try
again later, then. Bye, now." That was for my mom.
I think it was one of those telemarketer opinion
surveys or something. I hate those things. I usually
tell the person I don't have a real opinion one
way or another. That gets them off the line quickly.
But my mom loves those surveys, especially when
the questions get asked at the mall when she's shopping.
I told her there's a Web service that pays her to
do that stuff online but she hates the Internet.
You've gotta feel sorry for old people: no grasp
whatsoever of any new technology. My dad can barely
work the remote control for the DVD we just got!.
. .
Where
was I again? Yeah, the fact that, try as you might,
it's so difficult to actually… Oh, God. It's someone
at the door. Hold on. . .
Hey,
good news! That was the courier, delivering my new
MP3 Walkman! The thing is unbelievable; you just
hook it up to the computer, download the tunes you
want, then store them in a MiniDisc. That courier
business, now that's a business I wouldn't mind
getting into: You're traveling all day, never staying
too long in one place, you have all kinds of time
to yourself, and you're meeting new people. What
more could you ask for, besides benefits and job
security? Speaking of downloads, gimme a second
to finish downloading a game I'm grabbing from this
Web site. It's a trivia game. I don't know when
I'm going to find the time to play it, but it sounded
like a cool time-waster. It can't hurt, can it?.
. .
Back
to the task at hand. What I'm trying to put forth
for your consideration is the idea that new technologies
are leaving us less and less time to consider our
lives. For example, let's pretend that I'm Christopher
Columbus, heading across cold and lonesome waters,
looking for new lands. Granted, it's a long trip,
but it gives me time to figure out why I'm doing such
a thing, and I might have a little extra time for
some letter writing to my love back in the old country.
But today, Christopher Columbus would not exis. .
. Oh, man, I'm just watching that old rock video by
Sinead O'Connor. "Nothing Compares to You," I think
it's called. Is it me, or is this video just awful?
It's just her, staring into the camera, singing the
song. No jump cuts, no fancy Japanimation clips, just
her reacting to the song's lyrics. Bo-ring. . .
Yeesh,
I'm sorry. I get distracted so easily. Let me finish
my analogy. Who am I, again?
Copyright
© 2000 Adam Proteau All Rights Reserved
Adam
Proteau is a student and writer who resides in Toronto.
He's open to answering any e-mails. If he's got
time.
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