Machines are taking over my space, large smooth plastic and metal casings with wires and cables at the ready to catch and hold dust bunnies. To be fair, technology and the internets have allowed me to work from home sans big girl pants that button and tight shoes for years, close to a decade. I’m home for package delivery slips and the repairman. I can grocery shop and hit the gym in the middle of the day, have lunchtime sex.
But at what cost? Asked the boss for an external monitor for my 15” laptop. It arrived today, a 21-inch, comically large widescreen that takes up half or more of my work space (and I like a clean work space). May relegate the unopened box to the basement and simply squint.
My cable telly provider will soon retire analog channels in favor of digital. I’m not much of a TV watcher, never subscribed to premium channels or On Demand programming options. I’m good with just TBS for reruns of “The Office” and CNN for my Andy Cooper. But as more and more channels slowly fade away (I miss “America's Next Top Model” marathons on Oxygen) I requested a digital converter box. It’s the size of a small flying saucer and requires two inches or more of free area on all sides to properly "ventilate". The goddamn thing breathes. I haven’t the space or energy for it. Calling Comcast in the morning.
I’m happy old school. I like the smell and smudge of pencils on paper, grainy stock used to hand write a thank you or amorous note. I prefer movies in a theater (the home experience just isn’t the same) and was last on the block to buy a DVD player.
The manfriend (lovely and thoughtful) set up an internet radio receiver in my place. He said, "everyone needs music," and knew my cassette-CD-phono combo was on last legs and sans antenna. It’s wonderful, only downside that I have no player for my vast CD collection (other than the car) and digital music takes time to organize, not to mention storage space. Remember liner notes, the smell and feel of vinyl. And photo albums? When people talked instead of texted? ...sigh...
I’m Laura Ingalls Wilder. She used a hot nail to curl her bangs.
I tend to perseverate over technology, what’s working as it should and what’s not. I simply want the light switch to illuminate the dark and water to run from the faucet (hot or cold on demand). I don’t want to know why or how or from whence it came. I don’t need to see how the sausage is made, just enjoy its meaty goodness.
Thanks to the tiny Ativan I just swallowed to remove myself from this brave new world, sleep is still mostly low-tech.
I miss Conan O’Brien before bed.