I’m not talking about drugs. “Doesn’t Twitter, Facebook, and blogging sound like bad sex?” my friend in Maine asked on the phone the other day. “Do you want to blog? No, I don’t want to blog with you!” would be her consistent response.
She went on to tell me about someone who lives in Chicago, who has hooked up her phone or computer to sound like a crackling fire. “Why would anybody want to do that?” My friend is outraged about the virtual experience, why anyone would bother.
I can’t answer her question. I’m betwixt and between my own Gemini self blogging — gee, it gets me to write — and becoming a Facebook addict. But there’s so many interesting articles that people post, movies they’re seeing, political rants. And I genuinely like hearing what folks I like but may not ordinarily be touch with are doing.
I gave up on Twitter. Too many people and it takes too much time to read. Too much nonsense. Do I really care if someone I don’t know in Belgium has a baby who won’t take a nap? Do you care if I just got up to get another piece of chipotle chili dark chocolate that Dan gave me for Christmas?
I’m told by people I respect that to be with it you have be in tune with social media. So I have a website, a blog, which may or may not help me get more freelance writing/editing jobs.
Around 10 years ago, Chicago academic friends showed me how to access the Mona Lisa at the Louvre in Paris online. They were so excited. “Can you believe it? We’ll be able to view works of art anywhere in the world on our computer screens,” they said.
“Oh, I’ll never do that,” I told them. “That’s too high-tech for me.” Now it seems like another lifetime when I went to a library to do research. I even want a tiny MacBook Air or at least an iPad to carry in my purse.
I’m addicted to e-mail. I don’t think I could have moved to Tucson eight years ago without being in constant and immediate contact with my dearest friends on Mount Desert Island.
My friend back on MDI only engages in absolutely essential e-mailing to publishers and such (guess I don’t have to be concerned about her reading this).
I understand a certain reluctance to dive headfirst into the techno abyss. I used to refer to myself as a techno-peasant. I’d now call myself a recovering techno-peasant.
Then there’s my brother. He refuses to clink on a link, although he uses e-mail. When I recently told him how much fun I’m having playing lexulous (online Scrabble) with my kids, he blurted, “Play games online! I’d rather watch an ant crossing the street.”